


The Ultimatum Game

by septima_sum



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Alternative Universe - FBI, FBI Agent Stiles Stilinski, Future Fic, M/M, dual timelines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-17 17:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3537896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septima_sum/pseuds/septima_sum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His hair was grey at the temples, but otherwise very little about him had changed. The past decade had been kind to the werewolf. He looked tanned, fit, extraordinarily healthy. As sharp and predatory as ever. Despite being incapacitated by heavy handcuffs and flanked by security guards, he managed to exude an air of confidence, of superiority even. As if they had just happened to meet somewhere by chance.</p><p>The corner of the werewolf’s lips lifted in the suggestion of a smile. “Well. Fancy meeting you here, Stiles. Long time no see.”</p><p>The guards gave Stiles curious looks. </p><p>“It’s <i>Agent</i> Stilinski,” Stiles corrected automatically, feeling dazed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
  
  
  


They brought him in at two in the morning, when Stiles was so tired that he felt ready to drop into a coma; his thoughts were sluggish, operating in slow motion, and his eyes could not comprehend the sight in front of them. It was a ghost. A figment of his imagination had materialized in the corridor; memories long buried brought to life once more. Resurrected again. 

Peter Hale.

His hair was grey at the temples, but otherwise very little about him had changed. The past decade had been kind to the werewolf. He looked tanned, fit, extraordinarily healthy. As sharp and predatory as ever. Despite being incapacitated by heavy handcuffs and flanked by security guards, he managed to exude an air of confidence, of superiority even. As if they had just happened to meet somewhere by chance.

The corner of the werewolf’s lips lifted in the suggestion of a smile. “Well. Fancy meeting you here, Stiles. Long time no see.”

The guards gave Stiles curious looks. 

“It’s _Agent_ Stilinski,” Stiles corrected automatically, feeling dazed.

  
  
  
  


\-------

 

 

Like most clever people, Stiles had the capacity of being extraordinarily stupid.

It was the mid of summer. There were no classes to attend, no exams to take, no job he could occupy himself with – he had no partner and all of his friends were either buried in work or on adventurous backpacking trips. A heat wave left Stiles drenched in sweat no matter how many times he showered; the shirts clinging to his skin until he decided to ditch them altogether. At night, the cicadas were so loud that he had trouble sleeping. He was restless and unhappy in his own skin, which was damp with cooling sweat and desperate to be touched, and he thought that he maybe missed being in danger – the rush and thrill of it, the way he felt ten feet tall when they had beaten the odds once again. He was bored. Bored of college, bored of sex with frat boys with sexual orientation crises, bored of walks of shame, party gossip and cheap stale beer. 

A change of pace was in order. And so he acted on the long-standing invitation to Peter’s bed. 

  
  
  
  


\-------

 

 

Flynn was grinning like a madwoman. Or like a child on Christmas morning. It was terrifying to behold.

“We got a new catch?” 

Flynn chuckled. “A fresh one. José and his boys caught him in Central Florida, if you can believe it.”

Stiles bit down on his lip to stifle a hysterical laugh. Central fucking Florida. Unbelievable! He remembered that one 30 Rock episode where Jack Donaghy had explained that the central part of the sunshine state was mostly inhabited by Jewish retirees, serial killers, and secretly gay Disney princes.

He knew which box Peter fitted into. 

“So this is a case of…?”

Flynn grinned delightedly. “A W7-X. José struck gold, Stilinski. _Gold._ That creature is something of a legend in certain circles. A former alpha werewolf and a homicidal psychopath – a serial killer without any sense of morality, any capacity for love or kinship. He is feared even by others of his kind. An apex predator in the true sense of the word.” 

Stiles rubbed his eyes. If Peter had heard that, he would have imploded with pride. That was probably the nicest thing anyone had ever said about him. 

  
  
  
  


\-------

 

 

“You’re doing so well,” Peter whispered into his ear.

Stiles nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak, didn’t trust his voice to be steady, but he knew it was true. He was doing so well. Taking Peter’s cock so well. There were beads of sweat in the curve of his spine, on his forehead, in the hollow of his throat. He lowered himself inch for inch. Slowly. Very slowly. Until the entire length of the werewolf’s cock was finally inside him; pushed past the tight muscle ring. Until he was seated in Peter’s lap. Stiles closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddery breath. No matter how often he tried to get used to this, he never did. It was always new. Always unexpected. The hard length was deliciously unforgiving, large and hot and pulsing, stretching him perfectly, submitting him to the best kind of pain, and _he wanted to ride it so bad,_ it was all he ever thought about these days. He was addicted. Total one track mind. Stiles’ hands dug into Peter’s thighs, but the werewolf didn’t appear to mind. Peter held him loosely; his mouth was pressed into the junction of Stiles’ shoulder and neck. Stiles felt the hot soft breath, the hint of teeth against his skin. 

“You’re perfect,” Peter murmured behind him, against the shell of his ear. “You and your perfect little ass…your perfect little hole…”

“Peter…” Stiles groaned. 

“You were made to be fucked by me, darling.” Peter thrust up once, to emphasize his point.

Stiles gasped. He nearly lost his balance, but then two strong arms wrapped around his chest and waist, encircling him. Steadying him. 

“Or don’t you agree?” Peter hummed softly. “Don’t you agree that you’re a _fucktoy_ made with me in mind?”

 _Smug bastard_ , Stiles thought. _He is such a bastard._ But his dick definitively didn’t agree. Or well, probably didn’t care. Especially when Peter wrapped elegant fingers around his length and began to tease him with light strokes. 

“Stiles?”

“No, I – hm. Agree.”

He felt Peter grin against his neck. There was a hint of elongated, sharp teeth against his skin. Gentle still, but with the idea of a threat that was always a part of Peter’s presence. Stiles shuddered and came nearly then and there. That was – that was why he was here.

When Stiles started to move, enthusiastically fucking himself on the werewolf’s dick, Peter moaned so deeply that Stiles felt it more than he heard it. 

  
  
  
  


\-------

 

 

Flynn sent Stiles home. “There’s no reason for you to pull an all-nighter, okay? You already look like a zombie. I’ll see you tomorrow, Stilinski. Get some shut-eye.”

He did as he was told and left the office, though only reluctantly. The street lights blurred as he drove home, long pathways of light that guided him back to his apartment. He felt the edges of a panic attack press against his consciousness, the bubbly, giddy nervousness that always paved the way; the cold hard weight that simultaneously seemed to materialize deep in his chest. No matter how far he ran, his past always caught up with him. 

Sleep didn’t come easily that night. When his alarm went off the next morning, it hardly felt as if he had slept at all. Stiles splashed cold water onto his face and looked at his bloodshot eyes. Zombie indeed.

He had left everything behind. He had lost contact with his high school friends and everyone else many years ago. Memories still surfaced at unpredictable intervals, sometimes as clear and precise as if they had just been formed yesterday, sometimes fuzzy and dream-like, vague and without shape. 

He remembered feeling in love for the first time. The copper shine of Lydia’s long locks. Scott’s lopsided smile. The night he and Scott first went into the woods, changing the trajectories of their lives forever. Blood, tears and scars. 

One death after another.

Over and over again.

  
  
  
  


\-------

 

 

Peter’s apartment was devoid of anything that even hinted at his personal taste. It was small and had come fully furnished, if the abundance of beige and white shades was anything to go by. Stiles had not expected to see anything from before the fire, but even so it was terribly nondescript. No art prints, no DVD collection, no magazines lying around, no clutter…the only possession that Peter seemed to prize was his laptop, which was brand new and top-notch and kept in a safe when he didn’t use it. Stiles had no idea what Peter did throughout the day, though he walked and talked like a man with a purpose and a strict schedule. When asked, Peter derailed the conversation.

(With his _dick_ ).

(Because he was _never_ above using unfair means).

Stiles sighed and stretched, alone in the large bed for once. He felt pleasantly sore. Still felt a hint of what they’d been up to half an hour ago, the phantom memory of Peter pressing into him. He shivered as he remembered Peter’s lips on his cock, sucking him off with expertise, until Stiles came with a strangled shout. 

Great. And now he was getting hard again. 

Cursing, Stiles got up and went to the shower.

It was one thing to be in Peter’s apartment when the werewolf was present, but an entirely different thing when the werewolf gone. Granted, Peter was only out to get some groceries – gone for maybe twenty minutes – but the temporary solitude still felt significant to Stiles. Strangely intimate. 

After showering, Stiles sighed and scrutinized his appearance longer than was strictly necessary. There were lingering marks all over his torso and throat, where Peter had sucked and bitten and kissed his skin, and he cherished all of these traces with an inexplicable, mildly disconcerting fondness. 

What the hell. 

Was he doing. 

With Peter. 

This had been intended to be a hit-and-run kind of mission.

It had never been intended to be the kind of affair where he stood in his lover’s bathroom and goofily grinned at the landscape of hickeys he had acquired over a sleepless night.

A list of the people who would be most disappointed in Stiles’ pick of a partner (not conclusive):

 _His dad_. For obvious reasons. No matter how much he insisted otherwise, he wasn’t yet comfortable with Stiles being bisexual, so a thirty-something ex-serial killer zombie werewolf with psychological issues would no doubt stretch the boundaries of his tolerance. He still operated under the assumption that Stiles was seeing “a very lucky lady” at the moment.

 _Scott_. He would be scared on Stiles behalf, angry for him, neither understanding nor condoning the affair. No doubt he would assume that Stiles had been tricked into it, coerced by Peter Hale, who above all was a ruthless manipulator.

 _Lydia_. Stiles could practically see her press her lips together as she got the news; he harbored the suspicion that Peter would find himself lit on fire soon after. 

_Derek_. He had kept Peter on the fringe of his pack when he had still been the alpha, neither truly embracing him nor entirely ousting him. It was clear that Laura’s death would forever be between them. Derek seemed reluctant to accept Peter’s claim of temporary insanity.

Speaking of.

The death of Laura Elizabeth Hale kept Stiles’ thoughts occupied as of late. It was clear that Peter was a killer, but Stiles didn’t care that everyone who had been intimately involved in the Hale fire had died. Screw those motherfuckers. Good riddance. He didn’t have Scott’s unfailing moral code. If anything happened to his small circle of loved ones, he knew he would show no mercy. And that was the crux of the matter, really. He didn’t care who Peter had killed, as long as these actions had been justified. But Laura Hale? His sister’s daughter? The alpha of the diminished family pack?

Was he honestly having an affair with someone who had killed his niece in cold blood, just to gain power?

Stiles hoped – by the old gods and the new – that that wasn’t the case.

His reflection looked doubtful. 

  
  
  
  


\-------

 

 

When he returned to the office, he booted his computer and opened the access system for the holding cells. They only had a couple of residents right now – those who enjoyed a more permanent stay because they had not yet outlived their usefulness. Accessing the camera of Peter’s cell was child’s play. Goose bumps formed on his arms as he saw Peter in monochromatic vision, the werewolf looking straight up into the camera. 

Stiles wondered if Peter knew that he would be sentenced to death. Most likely already had been, in all the ways that counted. 

They had ways of killing werewolves quickly – ways of killing everything quickly – but more often than not they chose not to use them. 

Peter’s eyes were unnaturally bright in the shadowed cell. 

  
  
  
  


\-------

 

 

Peter propped himself up on one elbow. A ray of sunlight hit his face, giving his eyes a bright, but entirely natural intensity. Stiles blinked at him lazily. He felt exhausted in a happy, endorphin-fuelled kind of way. Damned werewolves and their stamina. Peter looked a good deal fitter and less ruffled, and how that was fair, Stiles really wondered.

One of Peter’s fingers glided over his torso in soft movements. Stiles smiled as he realized that Peter was probably tracing a pattern between his moles, connecting them in an imaginary design. For once, his skin was actually tanned (or as Peter had called it, the smarmy bastard, _‘sun-kissed in the true Californian style’_ ). He smiled at the older werewolf, enjoying the gentle ministrations.

“Stiles _is_ really a curious sort of name,” Peter murmured. His eyes flickered to Stiles’ and then away again, back to the moles he was connecting by touch.

“ _Curious_ , is it?” Stiles snorted. “I’m bracing myself for the inevitable insult.”

Peter gave him a surprisingly good rendition of the sad puppy dog eyes that Scott was so famed for. He rested his head on Stiles’ abdomen like a friendly canine. “You wound me. When have I ever insulted you?”

Stiles opened his mouth in protest, but didn’t manage more than an ineloquent ‘um’ as he fruitlessly combed through his memories. Then he remembered an instance. “You called me an idiot when I speculated that the alpha pack lived in a wolf den.”

“That was no insult. I was just stating a fact.” Peter sidled up to Stiles, smothering his protest with a languid, lazy kiss. When he let Stiles breathe again, Stiles had forgotten what they were even talking about.

Peter hadn’t, of course. “While Stiles Stilinski does admittedly have a certain ring to it-“

“-ha,” Stiles said.

“…I’ve recently realized I don’t know your birth name. Yet.” 

Stiles gave him a dubious look. “You know my name.”

“ _Stiles_ only serves as a nickname.”

“It’s my real name. For all intents and purposes, and for you, it is.” He grinned cheekily. 

Peter gave him an unimpressed look, sitting up. “I don’t usually have bed partners with self-chosen nicknames that sound like a white suburban 90es kid was trying to find a hip-hop name with _street cred_ and failed spectacularly.”

“There! That was the insult!”

Peter’s eyebrows arched mockingly. “Forgive me.”

“Nah. Forget it.” Stiles bit on his lip, gently worrying the tender skin that still felt borderline abused after their latest sex session. Peter was an equally aggressive and enthusiastic kisser. “And anyway, if sleeping with someone named Stiles is so damaging to your self-worth, feel free to replace me any time.”

There was an awkward silence after the statement, not to mention the minor twitch in Peter’s mouth area that made him look sour for a brief moment. Stiles was surprised how much he minded the hypothetical replacement, now that he had voiced it out loud. Their one-night stand had developed into a two-night stand, that had developed into a weeklong affair, and currently they had been enjoying carnal pleasures for about…no, for exactly nineteen days. It was astonishing. He would have assumed that particular itch would have been faster to scratch. 

Peter pretended to consider the idea. “Sure, I could. But it’s a Thursday afternoon and I don’t think I’d find another mouthy criminology student just waiting outside my door. I’d rather just know your name.”

“You wouldn’t be able to pronounce it.”

“I’m talented with my tongue.”

“You cannot possibly be _this_ talented.”

“You underestimate me. Let me prove it to you.” 

“Thanks, I’ll pass.”

Peter pouted, or at least came dangerously close to it. “Why not?”

“My birth name is way more ridiculous than my nickname. Besides, names give you power. That’s common knowledge. You even said so yourself.”

Peter rolled on top of Stiles and smothered his neck with kisses until Stiles nearly cried with laughter. “I already have power over you.” He pressed his hips down.

Stiles wheezed. “If your _power_ was that magical, I would have told you my name weeks ago.”

Peter continued to nibble on his neck until Stiles hit him in the head. Gently. “Stop it, you furry ball of evil!”

“I can intimately acquaint you with my _furry balls of evil._ In fact, that sounds like an excellent plan for the evening.”

Stiles snorted and shoved at Peter until the heavy werewolf got the message and let himself fall on his back so that Stiles could straddle his waist and lean over him. Peter looked serious and…a bit odd. Off. Not like his usual smarmy self, the perma-smirk notably absent for the moment being. He almost looked deflated, though Stiles was reluctant to use that word in conjunction with their resident zombie werewolf. He had it on good authority that Peter’s emotional spectrum didn’t extend that far.

“I have other plans for the evening,” Stiles told him after a few heartbeats. 

Peter’s eyebrows rose questioningly. 

Stiles grinned and then showed him.

  
  
  
  


\-------

 

 

The FBI had dozens of field offices, but this one was different. Its real purpose – housing the major part of the supernatural branch, along with its various divisions and sections – remained a secret to the public. 

Stiles was in the meeting room early, fiddling with his tablet and trying not to burn his tongue on the coffee.

Bit by bit, he was joined by the other members of Flynn’s team. They started once Flynn herself joined them. 

“So,” Flynn started. “José brought us a little gem by the name of Peter Hale. He was residing in a mansion in the middle of swampland, apparently, like an ill-conceived James Bond villain. As some of you may know, Peter Hale is a former alpha werewolf who has been responsible for a murder spree in Beacon County some years back.”

There were murmurs around the table.

Stiles tried not to squirm. This _was_ going to get uncomfortable. 

“What he is most notorious for, however, is orchestrating his own resurrection.”

This specific piece of news had set the werewolf community ablaze and alarmed those who were interested them. Luke groaned. “It’s bad enough sending them to the ground once. I don’t want to play whack-a-werewolf on a regular basis.”

There were nods around the table. 

Flynn opened a presentation and outlined the events that had occurred in Beacon Hills fifteen years ago. It was weird, seeing all those well-known facts recounted in such a clinical and detached way. Stiles remembered how their life had spun out of control when he’d dragged Scott into the woods – the initial excitement, the bone-deep horror that had followed quickly in its wake. 

After being recruited by the FBI, and after having been employed within its supernatural branch, Stiles had come to discover that the FBI had entered into complicated arrangements with local hunters. Some hunters – like José Blanxart – had a contract with the FBI, while others were so autonomous that they had been granted the full right to establish justice in their territories. The Argents, being one of the oldest and most renowned dynasties, were one such case. They enjoyed nearly feudal rights. All that they really owed the FBI was to keep them regularly up to date. It would have been an entirely different ball game if the FBI had enough manpower to monitor each of the fifty states, but alas, they didn’t. The director of the supernatural branch was happy to outsource the responsibility for some areas. At least for now. _Project Helios_ would change everything one day.

Stiles was lucky he didn’t flinch outright when Flynn mentioned Peter’s “first bite victim”, a sixteen-year old local boy. He was relieved to note that the Argents hadn’t submitted the name _Scott McCall_ to the authorities. Obviously harboring some reservations, then. 

When Flynn ended her outline, each member of her team looked grim. 

Peter was a piece of work. Conniving, smart, ruthless. Brutally violent, when he figured a score still needed to be settled. 

Barabash spoke up first. “So all in all, seven deaths are linked to Peter Hale?”

“Yes. Garrison Myers, an insurance investigator who ruled the fire accidental; Jonathan Winder, Freddie Reddick, Tom Unger, and Santiago Ramirez, all of whom had criminal records that included arson; Jennifer Spalding, Hale’s nurse in the long-term care unit; and last but not least, Kate Argent, the daughter of Gerard Argent, and the hunter behind the arson scheme that resulted in the demise of the Hale pack.” 

Well, Peter’s list of sins certainly wasn’t as short as it could have been. 

Stiles had the feeling he had to pipe up now or forever keep his peace. “I’m actually from Beacon Hills,” he began, to the surprise of the rest of the team. “Sheriff’s kid. Back then everyone thought it was a mountain lion that was responsible for all these killings, but I always thought there was something sketchy about it.”

Stiles remained relaxed under the gazes of the rest of the team.

Outwardly at least.

Or so he hoped.

“Did you ever come in contact with Peter Hale?” Flynn asked.

_Multiple times and in a great number of fashions. Lube may have been involved._

“No. Can’t say I have. And after hearing what he was involved in, I don’t feel too sad about it, either.” He gave them a little smile, trying to reassure them of his ignorance. Stiles was lucky that no records existed that proved he had been involved in the irregular events in Beacon Hills. Well, ‘lucky’ in a manner of speaking. Before he had gone to college, he had done the utmost to give himself a clean slate and had, uhm, sanitized his biography with legal help. And a little less-than-legal help. 

Flynn ended the presentation. “Well then. We’ll follow the usual protocol here. Let’s see if he confesses.”

Stiles hoped that Peter did; they had taken a leaf out of the CIA’s book when it came to talk-encouraging methods.

  
  
  
  


\-------

 

 

It was an accidental discovery. 

Peter had a grip on his ankles, holdings his legs apart and fucking him with abandon, with sinuously long thrusts, when Stiles groaned and threw his head back; this meant that the pale long lines of his neck were fully exposed to Peter. Presented to him.

In hindsight it was clear why Peter stilled. And _growled_.

A moment later Stiles found himself on his hands and knees, flipped by strong arms, and he barely had time to take another breath before Peter was pushing into him again, in one hard thrust, nearly knocking Stiles over. 

Stiles scrambled for purchase on the bed, digging his nails into the sheets, hardly able to keep up with Peter. “Fuck – ah! You can’t be serious.” He nearly shouted as a particular hard thrust grazed his prostate, flooding him with a sensation of radiating warmth and the feeling of _oh my god fuck yes_ that usually preceded one of his orgasms.

Peter _growled_ again and kept growling, kept grasping his ass so hard that there would be marks even from his blunt human nails, angry-red crescents, slamming into him again and again until he was buried to the hilt, his balls slapping against the soft skin of Stiles’ perineum with each thrust.

Okay, so this was – this was _different_. Like unleashing wildfire.

“Peter,” Stiles begged, without knowing what he was begging for.

It was pain and torture, too intense; it was perfect and Stiles never wanted it to stop.

_“Stiles.”_

A strong hand splayed on his back while the other came to grip neck, both holding him down so that his ass was high in the air but his shoulders pinned to the mattress. Stiles swore and moaned, arching against the temporary restraint, and discovered just _how much_ he loved that. Being immobilized, having no choice but to _take it_ , surrendering himself to the force of nature that was the werewolf; to the fast hard rhythm of his thrusts. For once Peter was panting too, getting winded. 

Stiles found he loved that as well. 

Well.

This was certainly a journey of self-discovery.

He gasped as Peter drew him back, so that he was still on his knees but all of a sudden upright, and kept upright by Peter’s grip on his arm. 

The hand that was suddenly at this throat, exerting steady pressure, drew a surprised whimper from Stiles as well. 

He started to forget that anything existed outside of Peter’s bed. Outside of the rhythm of their labored breathing. Their heartbeats. The wet and slick sound of Peter’s thrusts. The slapping of flesh on flesh.

Stiles’ back was arched, taut and curved like a bow – his whole body trembling under the tension and serving only one purpose now: being an instrument for their mutual pleasure.

Peter growled yet again as his cock slammed into Stiles, relentlessly stretching Stiles’ hole, panting an obscene litany of _fuck, so tight, take it_ …then his teeth, elongated and sharp, were on the junction of Stiles’ neck and shoulder. Giving him a mark, but not a permanent one; Peter’s lips cajoling the blood just below the surface to will a hickey into being. A transient brand on the strong curve of Stiles’ shoulder. 

Stiles gasped, overwhelmed, and this was how he learned what a bared throat meant to werewolves.

It was a huge gesture – one of respect, of deference. 

Of submission.

When they lay on the bed and tried to catch their breath, both sweaty and their limps intertwined, Peter pressed a soft kiss on Stiles' temple and started to idly comb a hand through Stiles' sweat-damp hair. And asked Stiles – with as much insistence as he would probably ever allow himself to muster – to tell him his name. 

Stiles was tempted to do just that, but in the end it was…well. Too much. It didn’t feel right. It felt like he would be giving too much of himself to Peter, to this thing that had developed between them, forming and shifting and changing without their express permission. 

Peter didn't ask him again; at least not this outright. 

  
  
  
  


\-------

 

 

The interrogation would be led by Flynn and Barabash. 

Usually, Stiles would be annoyed by that – he had a nasty little competition going on with Barabash, both of them vying to be Flynn’s right-hand agent – but today he only felt relief. He didn’t want to face Peter. He was already sweating more than could be attributed to the temperature, desperately hoping that his colleagues wouldn’t notice his increasing discomfort. They were all gathered now, ready to view the proceedings through the one-way mirror. The only thing missing in their little matinee show was popcorn.

Flynn was known to be level-headed and competent interrogator (and in all honesty, she needed to have these qualities; Peter didn’t easily crack under pressure). She was relatively pragmatic about supernatural creatures, neither demonizing them nor overly siding with them. Barabash sang an entirely different tune, though. She was quick-tempered and austere. A hardliner. Strongly in favor of project _Helios_ , which was an ambitious, still developing program with the goal to covertly register and monitor every supernatural being in the United States. Putting them on the map and keeping them on the map, so to speak. 

Of course Barabash, the little ray of sunshine, had muttered something ominous about that being ‘the first step.’

Stiles straightened up as Peter was led into interrogation room, again heavily handcuffed and flanked by two guards. He was directed to sit at a table while Flynn and Barabash remained standing. The werewolf gave them their best impression of a poker face – which naturally was a damn good impression – but Stiles still noted his gaze gliding through the room, taking in every detail. 

With a start Stiles realized that Peter was _concerned_.

His façade sported the slightest, most miniscule crack. Visible perhaps only to Stiles.

“I’m Special Agent Flynn, this is Agent Barabash,” Flynn began. “You were brought here to be interrogated in the context of several alleged homicides that took place in Beacon County in 2011.”

“Where exactly is _here_?” Peter asked mildly. “I’m afraid I wasn’t given the grand tour.”

“The location is classified,” Flynn replied. “But this facility is under the direction of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Please state your name, age, and place of birth for the record.”

“I think you have all of that already.” Peter now looked faintly bored, studying his fingernails. Stiles sighed internally, his trepidation rising. He guessed that Flynn and Barabash would have their work cut out for them. 

Flynn’s eyes hardened. “It would be in your best interests to cooperate, Mr. Hale.”

“Really. And what happens if I don’t?”

“If you don’t talk, it will be very hard to convince us of your innocence.”

“Hm. Fair enough. But I do have Miranda rights. If I’m not entirely mistaken – and I studied the law, so I think I’m onto something here – I have the right to remain silent, not to mention the right to have an attorney present now and during any future sessions of questioning.”

Flynn smiled. “Due to the particular nature of your transgressions and your status, the conventional criminal and civil proceedings do not apply here.”

Peter arched an eyebrow sardonically. “But I am an US citizen. Surely I have some constitutional rights that cannot be bypassed.”

“You have no rights, _mutt_ ,” Barabash cut in. “The Constitution was made _by_ humans _for_ humans. Not for bloodthirsty beasts that shouldn’t exist in the first place!” 

Flynn leveled a warning glare at Barabash, but didn’t correct her. “We’re the legislative, executive, and judicial power here, Mr. Hale. Believe me when I tell you that your full cooperation is in your best interests.”

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m indebted to the fantastic [eves_leaves](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eves_leaves/pseuds/eves_leaves), who beta-read this chapter several times and gave me invaluable feedback, thus thoroughly improving what I had written. I can't thank you enough! :-)

  
  
  


Peter’s birthday was coming up; a fact that Stiles knew only because Derek had made an offhand remark a few years back and his brain was a strange device indeed, grasping onto the most useless information and refusing to let go. Peter would turn thirty-nine in a few days. Stiles wondered how he used to celebrate his birthday _before_ , guessing that it been a huge family affair every time. He smiled at the image of Peter’s nieces and nephews singing a wonky version of _happy birthday_ for him, at the image of Peter wearing a multicolored party hat and stuffing his face with cake. Well. It probably hadn’t gone down quite like that. And those days were long gone anyway.

Peter had never mentioned his birthday or given any indication of wanting to acknowledge it, but that might be more due to him having no one to celebrate it with than any aversion to the day per se.

The thought was unexpectedly gut-wrenching. A planet of seven billion people and not one them cared enough to say, _hey congratulations, you’re officially old as fuck now_. Stiles might not fit the exact definition of popular, but even he was swamped with well wishes on his birthday. If he were fatally hit by a car tomorrow, he knew his funeral would be a desolate event. He couldn’t imagine being completely on his own; no one caring whether he lived and prospered or vanished from the face of the earth.

Stiles decided he had to do _something_. Something nice, but preferably low-key. He was pretty sure Peter would probably rather rip someone’s head off than endure pity.

  
  
  
  


\-------

 

 

“I could use a little incentive. I fail to see why I should cooperate with you.”

“The extent of your cooperation will be taken into consideration," Flynn replied suavely. "The more forthcoming you are, the more lenient you can expect us to be.”

“And what exactly are my prospects in this secret FBI facility in the middle of nowhere?”

“If you’re honest with us, we will be honest with you. We can talk about your prospects later. At length.” 

“Can we now. Hm. You playing dress-up and orchestrating this parody of a prosecution – it’s cute, real cute. I take it jobs in the actual judicial system were too demanding for you.”

Even this barb failed to provoke Flynn. She had the upper hand and was well aware of that. Smiling mildly, she kept circling Peter.

“Mr. Hale. There is overwhelming evidence that links you to the homicides in Beacon Hills. DNA material – blood, hair, skin cells – we have video documentation, the accounts of several witnesses, not to mention the protocols of the local hunters. You have a motive and no alibis that we know of.”

“Protocols of the local hunters…” Peter sneered, an ugly expression on his otherwise handsome features.

“We are well aware of the rivalry between the Argents and your family.”

“Rivalry? You make it sound like we used to squabble over petty trophies. That was not the case, I can assure you.”

“You shared the same territory, didn’t you? It’s natural that tensions arise. Especially when the oldest Argent daughter was sexually assaulted by a werewolf.”

The statement resulted in a deafening silence. 

“Is that what they told you?” Peter finally asked. 

“Isn’t that what happened?”

“It was the other way round. My youngest nephew was seduced by Kate Argent, a woman nine years his senior. He was only fifteen at the time. That easily qualifies as _statutory rape_ in the state of California.” 

Stiles could tell that Flynn and Barabash remained highly skeptical of Peter’s statement, while the werewolf grew angrier with each passing second. He had always abhorred reliving any memories of the fire, or the events that led up to it. “The Argents were on a homicidal crusade against everything they deemed _different_. Any bigot can load a gun and call himself a guardian – if you had any sense about you, you would be interrogating an Argent right now! You would ask them why they think it’s fine to murder children because they have _the wrong blood._ ”

From the corners of his eyes, Stiles saw Barabash clench her fists, her mouth set in an angry, tight line.

“But of course you don’t. Of course you don’t care. They are human and we are not; in your eyes we are born guilty, aren’t we?”

Flynn and Barabash remained silent.

“We never had any protection,” Peter spat out. “My grandmother, an alpha, was murdered by hunters who called her a _wayward bitch._ They let their dogs rip her to shreds. They thought that was poetic!” Peter’s eyes burned ice-blue, his hands shaking with barely suppressed rage. “We never had any fairness coming our way. Never!”

“That’s why you decided to retaliate.” 

Peter looked at Flynn for a long moment, recovering control. “I decided justice was in order,” he said finally, his voice cutting. 

“And did you find justice?”

“You know that as well as I do.”

“You are responsible for the murders of Garrison Myers, Freddie Reddick, Tom Unger, Jonathan Winder, Santiago Ramirez, and Kate Argent?”

“I killed them all. Yes.” His eyes still burned blue, intense with cruel satisfaction.

After that, Peter didn’t hold back any information. In an almost detached sort of way, he outlined how he had plotted his revenge and executed it; killed them all until no one had been left standing. 

“What about the death of your nurse in the long-term care unit, Jennifer Spalding?”

“What a poor thing. She had outlived her usefulness. Nothing personal, but you can only have so many crazy people running around. It gets unpredictable fast.” Peter smiled at her sardonically, coldly, as if he dared her to pass judgment on him, to find him exactly as repugnant as he had presented himself. 

“So you killed her for no other reason than your own convenience?”

A sneer. “What do you think?” 

“Is that a yes, Mr. Hale?”

“Yes.”

“I see. And what about the death of your niece, Laura Hale?”

Peter was silent for a few moments. He glanced towards the expanse of the mirror, then back again. Barabash followed his gaze. 

“I needed her power.”

“It seems like you value power above everything.”

Peter did not seem ruffled by the accusation. “I have clear priorities and am not afraid to follow them, unlike most people I know. That’s a virtue, not a vice. Power, specifically the power of an alpha, was just the means to an end for me. The weapon I needed for my own campaign.” 

“You claim to have murdered everyone involved in the arson to retaliate the death of your pack members. Yet Laura Hale was family and you killed her. That seems strange to me. Your story doesn’t quite hold up, does it?”

“I don’t care what you think.”

“Maybe you should.”

“I was not in the full possession of my mental faculties-“

“You had enough rational thought left to lure your niece to Beacon Hills, didn’t you? That was a calculated move.”

“It was a _necessary_ move.”

And that was all Peter would say on the subject.

Despite himself, Stiles felt tendrils of disappointment unfurl in him. Even after all these years, he still felt let down. Whether by himself or Peter, he couldn’t say. Maybe by his hope that Peter would be a better person and that by extension Stiles, indulging in an affair with Peter, would not be as fallible and weak-minded as he had been. 

He still didn’t understand Peter’s behavior. If Peter had been on a murderous rampage and his niece had been collateral damage…that would have been one thing. Still gut-wrenching. But not as heinous. But actively plotting, planning his niece’s death – that was just _beyond_. Beyond redeemable in any shape or form.

He had witnessed how Peter had wrecked the rest of the family, dwindled as it was.

Stiles suspected that Laura’s death had destroyed Derek in ways that the fire had been unable to. She had always been groomed for command, had apparently excelled at it even under the most difficult, most trying times – likely, it had been Laura’s death that had sent Derek on a downward spiral of self-destructive behavior. If she had still been around…well. There would still be a Hale pack in Beacon Hills. Maybe Cora could have stayed. Maybe Peter could have been happy with just being a beta one day, playing both the senior advisor and the _advocatus diaboli_. Four Hales together, united, as pack; what a world that could have been. 

But Peter had destroyed what was left of the family. Had pissed on their legacy.

And that, Stiles would never forget or forgive.

  
  
  
  


\-------

 

 

Stiles decided to cook a large Polish dinner. The significance of the gesture would probably be lost on Peter…but maybe that was even preferable.

It was his luck that Peter didn’t believe in door locks (finding them an entirely human effort that offered nothing but the illusion of security). Stiles’ lock picking skills were more than sufficient to open the werewolf’s apartment with little fuss. To his father’s irritation, he had befriended Old Harry – a petty thief and jovial alcoholic – when he had been a teenager. His dad had tried to keep the contact to a minimum, but even so Stiles had found ways to sneak to Harry’s holding cell and Harry had always rewarded him by teaching him a few of his more sketchy tricks. No doubt it had amused him to find out that the sheriff’s own son had such a streak for mayhem and mischief, and so little regard for rules of any kind. 

Stiles was in the middle of his dinner preparations when Peter entered the kitchen. Never let it be said that the werewolf couldn’t be surprised anymore. Peter looked ostensibly confused. On someone who prized composure so highly, it was an almost adorable look. 

“What are you doing?”

Stiles grinned. “Cooking.”

“Yes, _I can see that_.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“You’re not usually in the habit of cooking. I wasn’t even aware you did anything else than order pizza.”

“Hm.” Stiles stopped stirring the sauce and stole a glance at Peter. 

Peter seemed to deflate. “You know it’s my birthday?”

Stiles nodded, suddenly hesitating. After a few heartbeats, he closed the distance to Peter and pressed a soft kiss onto his lips. “Happy birthday.”

Peter looked stunned, if only for a moment. 

He sat down on a counter and watched Stiles wreak havoc on his kitchen. “How did you even get into this place?”

“It’s called lock picking, Peter.”

“You know how to pick locks?”

“Are you surprised?”

“You’re awfully intent on breaking the rules, for a sheriff’s on.”

Stiles shrugged. “Story of my life.”

“Little deviant.” Peter shook his head. “I think I need to spank some virtuousness into you.”

Heat rose in Stiles’ cheeks as he tried to hide a grin. “It’s not like _that_ has worked so far.”

“I’m an optimist. I believe in long-term results.”

“…I can’t argue with that.”

They bantered back and forth for a while, exchanging mild taunts, but Stiles could tell that Peter’s heart wasn’t really in it. He was quieter than usual this evening, not as quick-witted; terse and increasingly unable to relax. Stiles soon felt affected by the nervous energy. He wondered what he would have heard with werewolf ears, wondered if the drum of Peter’s heartbeat was agitated or anxious.

When they sat down to eat, Peter gave him a tight smile. “This is lovely. Thank you.”

Stiles shrugged; a bit embarrassed about the lengths of his efforts.

The first course consisted of _placki ziemniaczane_ , crunchy little potato pancakes filled with carrots, grated onions, parsnips and slices of grilled sausage, accompanied by generous helpings of sour cream. That had been his favorite meal as a kid. He was relieved that it tasted as good as he remembered. His mother’s memory rose before his eyes, her graceful fingers as she chopped the ingredients, her wide, open, easy smile…Stiles took after her looks-wise, with his dark hair and pale skin dotted with moles. It hurt to remember her (would always hurt), but at the same time Stiles was glad that he could do her legacy justice, even if only in small ways. As a main course Stiles had prepared grilled _oscypek_ – sheep’s cheese served with slices of bacon, grilled apple and fresh cranberry sauce. It was a delicious blend of flavors, even if slightly unusual, and Stiles felt gratified to see Peter agree and dig in. The dessert was delightfully tasty as well, if he might say so himself; he had made _makowiec_ , sugar-glazed poppy seed cake. Peter ate it with his fingers and then popped them in his mouth to lick them clean.

Halfway through the dinner, Peter asked him: “Are these Polish dishes?”

Stiles nodded. “My mother was born in Wrocław. These are all dishes from the old homeland.”  


“Have you ever been there?”

“I few times, to visit my grandparents.”

“Hm,” Peter said. “Your dad has Polish ancestry, too, I assume.”  


“Yep, although a bit more distant. And he doesn’t speak a word of Polish. Except _tak_ and _nie_ and _wypchać się sianem_.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed in consideration. “I’m getting the feeling that your given name is a Polish one…”

Stiles laughed. Peter _still_ kept circling that question, like a hungry wolf enclosing on a prey but not daring to approach again. “As a matter of fact, it is.”

There was an alarming sparkle in Peter’s eyes. “If I guess your name, will you tell me if I was right?”  


“Does this story end with me getting transformed into a pumpkin? Because dude, I swear I heard a fairytale like that once.”

A sigh. “I will not transform you into a pumpkin.” 

“Or you might steal my firstborn son.” “I also won’t bereave you of your children,” Peter replied, long-suffering.

“Good to know.” He nudged Peter’s foot under the table, just to let the werewolf know that this issue wasn’t anything super serious, nothing to get worked up about. “It’s something of a family secret, Peter. If I tell you, I will lose that aura of undefinable mystery that keeps you in my thrall.”

Peter shrugged nonchalantly. 

After that little exchange, the werewolf grew more and more monosyllabic. Stiles’ attempts at conversation fell flat more often than not. Usually they would talk about any number of topics…Stiles wasn’t picky, his interests were eclectic and derivative at best, and Peter was always ready to indulge him, to follow the erratic train of his thoughts as it hoped from one point of interest to the next.

After dinner, Stiles went to get his backpack and retrieved two gifts. The first thing he shoved at Peter was a bottle of wine (a very nice bottle, if his sources were correct). The second thing he gave Peter was a formidable version of Ovid’s _The Metamorphoses_ that he had found in a second-hand bookstore, because Peter was a sucker for Latin works, and for Ovid in particular. And because Peter’s own, richly illustrated vintage version had been lost in the fire. He had learned that while they had been at a stakeout together. Peter had told him about Ovid’s tales, about the legends that had been created when the Western civilization had been young, his voice quiet in the stillness of the forest…the air had carried a chill, a frosty bite, and the ground had been damp, but Stiles hadn’t cared. Had listened with riveted attention. As the title suggested, _The Metamorphoses_ was all about transformations – endless tales of humans and gods and half-gods getting transformed into different states of being, becoming divine or mortal, animal or stone; changing their gender, their skin, their bones, their matter... flexible clay subjected to endless forming and re-forming.

Peter did not like the story of Lycaon, probably because his transformation into a wolf was intended to be an act of punishment and degradation. It was a recurring theme, though; lots of people got transformed because they were vain or cruel or displayed other vices. It could also be an act of love or compassion, however. Like in the case of Aesacus, who jumped from a cliff to kill himself and was transformed into a bird while falling.

Stiles had liked that story upon first hearing it. Not so much after he hit rock bottom with the Nogitsune episode. 

Peter accepted the wine bottle and the book with a frown, visibly hesitating. 

Stiles had been fairly sure that Peter would like his gifts, but his confidence crumbled and crushed into itself as Peter just stared at them with an unreadable expression. “Um. Sorry if it’s not to your liking?”

Peter avoided his gaze, his whole face closed off, stony and unmoving. “The gifts are…it’s not that. I like them. It’s a nice gesture, Stiles. Really.”

 _But._

There was a _‘but’_ in there.

Peter dragged him down for a short kiss, his tongue hardly moving against Stiles’ before he retracted. “I think it’s best if you go home now.”

_“What?”_

Stiles probably looked as flabbergasted as he felt. 

Peter just shrugged and looked at him solemnly, offering no explanation. 

And so Stiles retrieved his bag and went, feeling like a kicked dog. _He had ruined it._ And he didn’t even know why.

Even worse, Peter didn’t answer his calls for three days.

It was only when Stiles thought their affair well and truly ended that Peter contacted him again. 

He was still a bit off when they met again, more withdrawn, and that was how Stiles realized how much warmer their previous interactions had been. 

They did recover, though. Somewhat. For a while, their affair went on as if nothing was happened. Stiles never understood where he had gone wrong or why Peter had thrown such a quiet fit, worked himself into such a mood.

  
  
  
  


\-------

 

 

They rarely had cases as absolutely clear-cut as Peter’s, so the vote for _threat removal_ was unanimous. Peter had killed for a multitude of reason, among them personal gain and simple convenience; he was remorseless, a wholly unabashed murderer, and thus a sustained threat for the general public.

Stiles felt hollow as the vote went through, his heart heavy and his mind at turmoil. He tried to put on his best poker face as he felt Barabash’s scowl on him. One less Hale. And he didn’t even know if Cora and Derek were still alive; last he knew they both had left Beacon Hills. 

The thought of the upcoming execution left Stiles restless. Fidgety. He was reminded of his worst pre-Adderall days and longed to go home to order some crappy pizza and forget about everything. He even longed to _talk_ to someone, to spill his guts, and it had been ages since he’d last had that particular urge, utterly undesirable as it was. 

It was only when he got home and rifled through an unpacked box of books in his living room, finding _The Metamorphoses_ on the bottom, that he decided: _this can’t be happening. It can’t. Not like this._

He needed to talk to Peter.

And he needed to do it quickly.

Unassuming-looking from the outside, the office building that housed the major part of FBI’s supernatural branch was in fact a large complex with relentless security measures. The cells tracts were buried several levels into the ground, as were the other facilities that needed to be kept hidden from the general public at all costs. 

It was fortunate that Stiles had a few tricks up his sleeve. 

He had always made it his job to learn the characteristics of any given system he was exposed to – looking for exits, for shortcuts, for weaknesses and strengths; that was simply how his mind worked, _‘legal_ and _‘illegal_ only being mere afterthoughts. The security within the FBI complex was much too superior for Stiles to really master, but even so he had found a few weaknesses that he thought he could exploit. 

His treacherous heart beat too quickly as he went down, as he bypassed several guard stations and barriers and encountered no problems, no more than a few bored glances. He had given himself a reason to be underground and gotten the required security keys to match his story – as long as nobody took a closer look, he would be fine. 

Hopefully.

The holding cells in level three were almost completely dark. The air was cold, stale, slightly damp. Dim overhead lights illuminated the hallways. 

At the moment, only the odd cell here and there was occupied. Which was entirely unsurprising, since the underground levels were cavernous, spreading into every direction; much larger and more ambitious in scope than the office levels above the ground. 

Stiles went deeper and deeper into the tract until he finally reached Peter’s cell. Like the other cells, it was small, but tidy and functional. A display on the wall beside the cell indicated its resident. 

_Peter Alexander Hale_  
Male, 49  
Werewolf [status pending]  
Beacon Hills, CA 

Peter actually appeared to be sleeping – or dozing, rather – when Stiles arrived. The cells were soundproofed in the sense that white noise was transmitted at all times; its frequency much too high to be picked up by humans.

It was a form of torture, in Stiles’ eyes. He had never particularly liked this feature of the holding cells. Of course, he was not actually involved with their construction – that was another department entirely, and most of Stiles’ assignments involved field research and the like – but there was a reason why he avoided the underground levels when he could. Scowling, he activated the interface next to Peter’s cell and punched in the necessary access codes. The noise barrier quickly went down.

The change was instantaneous. Peter startled awake, suddenly sitting upright (and in the process almost losing his balance and falling off the cot). His eyes were wide open in something akin to terror before they settled on Stiles, before they realized he was alone, and only then did he calm down and regain some measure of composure.

“Hey Peter.”

“Stiles,” Peter replied. Then, with a touch of sarcasm, “Excuse me. It is _Agent_ Stilinski these days, isn’t it.”

Stiles inclined his head a bit. “It is.”

Peter stood up, studying him with the shrewd gaze of someone who had learned to detect weaknesses – learned to sniff out the faintest traces of them, learned to exploit them. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Well, neither had Stiles. “That thought must have kept you up at night.”

“Maybe.” Peter granted him a thin smile. Deliberately, the werewolf let his gaze wander over Stiles’ form, taking in his appearance. Stiles considered it a success that he didn’t fidget under the scrutiny. 

“Well,” Peter drawled. “You’re all grown up now. Look at you! You fill that suit out nicely.”

“Peter, that’s not why I’m here.”

“And what are you here for?” 

When Stiles didn’t respond, was _unable_ to respond because the simple question was impossible to answer, Peter looked at him with an unreadable expression and said: “You’ve fallen in with a bad crowd. I always had the suspicion that would happen.” 

“Really. Don’t you think that’s a bit rich, coming from you?”

“If _I_ think it’s a bad crowd, how bad must it really be?”

Stiles’ eyes narrowed. “I’m not here to listen to your moral judgments.”

“I could say the same, _Stiles_.” Peter snorted. “If you think for one second you’re morally superior to me, you’re sorely and tragically mistaken. We’re cut from the some cloth.”

  
  
  
  


\-------

 

 

Everything was exquisite and nothing hurt, for a while. No one had ever told Stiles what affairs were like, and so he had to discover for himself that the most intimate moments were not linked to sex. There was a deeply ordinary side to Peter. He had to do the dishes sometimes. The laundry. He cooked and went shopping. Regular stuff that regular people did all the time.

Then there was a side to Peter that, while still ordinary enough, was more personal. Qualities and preferences that set him apart from others. Not surprisingly, for example, he was partial to Jazz and classical music. He was a snob about wine and a well-versed cook. Like Derek, he was a workout freak, though unlike his nephew, he also had a weakness for cigars. He was an avid reader of newspapers – with a preference for economics and anything pertaining to law – but Stiles was amused to note that he always went to the cartoon section first. 

There was yet another side to Peter, though, one entirely composed of little idiosyncrasies and habits, of unique mannerisms; this side not only set him apart from others, but defined who he was in a million different, diminutive ways. The way he loved to sunbathe whenever he could, curling up on the sunny spot of his bed like a content cat. Or the way he leaned into every one of Stiles’ touches, subtly, as if he could honestly hide the way it pleased him. Sometimes, he positively _melted_ against Stiles’ administrations, and the lines of his rigid composure would ease and unravel. Stiles came to suspect that Peter was an extremely tactile person. Maybe it just came with being a werewolf…maybe it was just a Peter thing. He took everything Stiles gave him, and took it gladly; he loved body contact of any sort and was much more cuddle-affine than Stiles would ever have predicted. But while Peter had a thing for making Stiles lose control, reveling in instances where he made Stiles abandon each inhibition, each shred of residual shame, he disliked being in a similar position. He was apparently intent on not letting anyone see behind his mask of nonchalance, behind the quick smirks and barbs and the terrible, terrible attitude. It probably worked most of the time, with most people, but with Stiles…Stiles had always prided himself on his perceptiveness. And observing Peter quickly became his favorite pastime. Each piece of information felt like a secret, like a gift – maybe even a victory of sorts – and he cherished each piece equally, collecting and cataloguing them with gloating pride.

Stiles hadn’t yet figured out why Peter avoided sleeping while Stiles was over. He never kicked him out and made him leave, but if Stiles woke up in the middle of the night, he would inevitably find Peter in the kitchen or at his desk, engrossed in reading. He had never woken up to find Peter sleeping at his side. When asked, Peter replied that he just didn’t require much sleep. Stiles wasn’t sure if this was actually true. 

Given Peter’s general caginess, Stiles found amusement in rattling him sometimes. It was just fun. 

“My father has been dropping hints that he wants to meet you,” Stiles said one lazy Sunday morning. “Increasingly _unsubtle_ hints. I think he’s just itching to go into full sheriff mode. Or maybe it’s just some overprotective dad bullshit, like he can’t wait to clean his shotgun on the front porch.”

Peter, who had previously occupied himself with nibbling on one of Stiles’ earlobes, stilled completely.

“Well, to be fair, he actually said he wants to meet the _very lucky lady_ I’m seeing at the moment.” Stiles turned around and lost it when he became aware of Peter’s less-than-impressed, sort of indignant expression, cackling like the evil little shit he was. 

“Should I fetch my bonnet?” Peter asked, drily.

“And your very best summer dress!”

Stiles giggled and felt Peter grin against the skin of his throat, which he always did when he was truly amused but didn’t want Stiles to see. 

Sighing, Stiles nestled himself deeper into their cocoon of blankets, into Peter’s embrace; taking pleasure in the warm, heavy weight of the werewolf by his side. When they weren’t preoccupied with murderous rampages, werewolves were surprisingly well suited for cuddling. Peter was radiating heat like a furnace, and luckily for Stiles he wasn’t averse to sharing.

“I’m actually very good with charming parents, you know,” Peter murmured. 

“In what world?” 

“In this one. I wasn’t always the exceedingly handsome, sophisticated, well-to-do bachelor that you know these days. I’ve also been an exceedingly handsome, sophisticated, well-to-do boyfriend several times.”

“I’d have to see it to believe it.”

And that was the last thing Stiles remembered before sleep claimed him, though when he woke up the next day he had the feeling that Peter had said something else after that, something he just couldn’t recall no matter how much he tried.

  
  
  
  


\-------

 

 

Stiles shook his head. “I’m afraid _you’re_ mistaken, Peter. We’re definitively not cut from the same cloth. I’d never kill anyone if-”

“-it wasn’t strictly necessary? You have no qualms about eliminating threats, so don’t pretend you do.”

“ _Threat elimination_ I have no problems with. And personal revenge, fine. It doesn’t get you on the fast track to sainthood, but I can understand that as well. I mean, I can understand you killing the arsonists and Kate and-“

“You’d have done the same in my shoes, Stiles. If it had been your mother. Or your father.”

Stiles struggled to subdue the current of grief that threatened to rise to the surface. In the end it had been the most profane, non-supernatural situation that had gotten his dad – a stroke while he was on stairs, the subsequent fall killing him. He felt Peter’s scrutinizing gaze on him.

“I know I’d have done the same, Peter. But it’s not that. That’s not the problem. Did you forget that you killed the nurse?”

“She became a liability once I was able-bodied again. Don’t feel too sorry for her, she took a long, _long_ hike through the crazy woods. Before I came along she had other ways of keeping herself entertained, and with me at the hospital, her methods of entertainment weren’t that stellar either. Which is irrelevant. I spent years living through traumatizing pain, scorched inside out, a piece of black-charred flesh with particles of a consciousness still clinging to it, do you know what that results in? What that feels like? Have you ever known pure, unadulterated rage? I would have killed anyone and anything that stood in my way. Never regretting it for an instant. I might not have been in the right state of mind, but it was the only option for me. The only way forward. The only way to the surface.”

Stiles swallowed with difficulty, again thinking of all the shit that had went down in the short span of his life. He felt like his moral compass was spinning out of control and he had no idea how to find North again. “And what about Laura, Peter? What’s your excuse there?”

“I already told you. And everyone else in this charming little facility.”

“You needed the increase in power, so you decided to rip out your niece’s throat,” Stiles recounted bitterly. “Yeah, what a fairytale that makes. I don’t know what I ever saw in you.”

“Fuck you, Stiles,” Peter snared. “Like I need to bare my soul to the likes of you.”

“Would it really take that long? I think I have five minutes to spare.”

Peter went over to the bars in powerful, light-footed strides until he was separated from Stiles by only a few inches of fortified titanium, his eyes on the same level as Stiles’. “You came to me because you needed a little excitement in your pedestrian life. You came running to the big bad wolf, wearing your little red hoodie, and now you feel deceived, of all things? Tell me, what is it like to work in a death camp? Do you enjoy getting to decide who lives and who doesn’t? You’re a hypocrite of the worst kind, Stiles.”

Stiles gaped at him, blotchy red spots forming on his cheeks.

“And just for the record: You aren’t what I thought you were either.”

  
  
  
  


\-------

 

 

The day before he returned to university, Stiles felt restless and unhappy. One last day with Peter. He would leave in the evening to spend some time with his dad, who was obviously disappointed that Stiles had made himself so scarce the last few weeks.

Most of Stiles’ sexual experiences had been of a quick hook-up nature. They had never been as intense as his affair with Peter. The last weeks had been surprisingly enjoyable and the sex had been – dared he say mind-blowing? Whatever, yes. Mind-blowing. Totally mind-blowing. Going to Peter had been against his better judgment, but he hadn’t lived to regret it yet. He had even come to trust Peter in some regards (trust the werewolf to know his own strength, to calibrate and hone it; trust the werewolf not to tell anyone about their affair), though obviously he wasn’t stupid enough to trust Peter in _every_ regard. 

It didn’t matter anymore.

What mattered, what really mattered…was that Stiles wanted to have the memory of Peter’s hands and teeth and his cock _imprinted_ on his skin. He wanted the memories to linger.

In all likeliness, this would be their last evening together. And so he urged Peter to fuck him _hard._

Grinning smugly, Peter replied, “I actually have something different in mind. How about you fuck me?”

Stiles almost choked on his own saliva, sputtering, “Are you serious? For real?”

“ _Totes_ for real, Stiles,” Peter replied. He tugged on Stiles until Stiles rolled on top of him, and then pressed his hands on Stiles’ ass, aligned their hardening cocks until they both gasped. “I absolutely want you to fuck me.”

“Excuse me while I come right here,” Stiles groaned. 

Peter nipped at Stiles’ lower lip. “That would defeat the purpose somewhat.”

Stiles began to kiss Peter enthusiastically, losing some of his finesse in the excitement of the moment. “Hm – nng. Doesn’t matter. I have a really short refractory period.”

“I noticed,” Peter said drily. “But it’s okay. We can’t all be in the form of our lives.”

Stiles boxed him in the arm. “Excuse me, all I understood was _‘intense midlife crisis.’_ ”

“As if.” Peter snorted and tossed a bottle of lube at Stiles. “Make yourself useful, sweetheart.”

Swallowing, Stiles nodded. He had been on that end of anal sex before, but admittedly not often. And those three encounters had been pretty awkward. He tried to take his time and mimic the way Peter always prepared him, gently and with single-minded attention, but the werewolf had other things in mind and urged him on when he tried to go slow. 

And that suited Stiles well.

Because kneeling between Peter’s thighs gave him an excellent view of the werewolf’s ass and his well-defined back. Add to that that he had three fingers working the tight, moist and velvety-soft heat of Peter’s entrance and Stiles was ready to come on the spot, not that anyone could blame him. His cock was throbbing so much it was nearly unbearable.

“So…how do you want it?” he asked eventually.

“What do _you_ want?” Peter replied, his voice deep and drawling. 

“I want…”

Oh god, he wanted _everything. At once._

“I want you like this,” Stiles said. 

“Okay,” Peter agreed, amused. 

Stiles went to wash his hands and gave his reflection a shaky, encouraging smile. His pupils were blown wide, dilated with arousal. He looked…not like himself. 

_Oh god._ He would really do this.

He would fuck Peter. 

His heart almost stopped as he returned to the bedroom and had a moment to take in Peter’s naked form. Peter on his belly. Naked in his whole glory. Waiting for him. For his cock. Waiting to be fucked. 

The mattress dipped under Stiles weight; he nudged Peter’s legs a bit further apart and settled between them. Used one hand to hold the cheeks a bit apart and the other to guide his cock to the rim of Peter’s asshole, which twitched adorably as it was first touched. There was some initial resistance until he could slowly push the head of his cock in – and that first penetration wrestled a sharp intake of breath from Peter. Stiles tensed because the engulfing heat felt so good, so fucking good…his muscles trembled under the strain of trying to keep still, under the strain of holding himself back instead of fucking Peter as ruthlessly as he wanted to. He went in slowly. Slowly settled his weight on Peter’s back. Until he lay flush on top of the werewolf, back to chest, his cock balls-deep in Peter’s hole.

Trying to breathe evenly, Stiles pressed a kiss on Peter’s neck. “This good?” he asked. 

“More than _good_ ,” Peter replied with a strangled voice. 

And indeed, it was more than good. 

Stiles began to move slowly and then increased the pace of his thrusts as Peter signaled him to. It was an incredible experience, fucking the force of nature that was the werewolf, Peter willingly submitting to this – so vulnerable as he lay on his stomach, his hands fisted into the sheets. He didn’t make a lot of noise, but there was no doubt that he liked this, that he enjoyed being fucked. That he wanted to surrender control.

Despite his best efforts, it didn’t take long for Stiles to come. When he did, his hips stuttered forward until he was pressed as deep into Peter’s ass as he would go; he grunted as he shot spurts of come into the tight passage. And collapsed on Peter’s back afterwards. Tried to take few calming breaths as he trembled under the aftershocks.

It was consoling that it also didn’t take long to suck Peter off, highly aroused as he was.

And then…they were a tangle of sweaty limbs, both of them catching their breath and unwilling to speak, to move, to break the moment…

Stiles didn’t want to go home, didn’t want to leave Peter, but it was inevitable. It would happen. He thought that Peter seemed similarly reluctant to end their affair, if the way his forehead was creased was anything to go by. 

“Why didn’t you ever accept a bite?” Peter asked out of nowhere after some time, an eyebrow raised in curiosity.

Stiles frowned. “I never saw any reason to…”

“You never saw a reason to be stronger, more resilient?”

Stiles rolled his eyes and then heaved himself on Peter’s chest, giving Peter a hickey just below the collar bone. Just because he could. And because he knew Peter liked it a whole lot. “The last few years haven’t exactly been an ad for the werewolf lifestyle. I mean, the hunters alone...”

“Understandable. But you didn’t want the bite from the get-go.”

“When _you_ offered it to me. You know, just after you attacked Lydia. And after I had gotten a first row premium seat to the spectacle of Scott’s first month.”

“Hm,” Peter said, his expression carefully guarded. “Would you have accepted the bite from anyone else then, under different circumstances?”

Raking a hand through his hair, Stiles pondered the question. “I don’t know. I’m actually happy to be human. Brute physicality isn’t my forte, anyway.”

“Could have fooled me,” Peter said, but he was smiling and didn’t seem to disagree. 

Minutes trickled by in near silence. Stiles could pick out the faint thrum of Peter’s heart, the soft sound of them exhaling and inhaling. He knew that he had to ask now if he ever wanted to have an answer, slim as the chances might be that Peter would be entirely honest. He had promised his dad to be home by 9 pm. The sky was already turning a blazing orange as the sun inched closer to the horizon.

“Peter, can I ask you something?” he uttered finally.

“I believe you already did, but do go on.”

Propping himself up on his elbows Stiles searched for words, a lump forming in his throat. This was harder than expected. He didn’t even know why he had to bring it up _now_ of all times. Fuck his lack of impulse control. “Peter, all those years ago…why did you kill Laura?”

Peter held his gaze for a long while, his face unreadable. “Because I believed I needed her powers,” he said finally. “And I wasn’t exactly sane at that time.”

That was precisely the answer that Peter had given before. Stiles still wasn’t happy with it, still thought it felt wrong somehow. Not like the whole truth.

He looked away to hide his disappointment.

  
  
  
  


\-------

 

 

Stiles flinched. “It’s not like any of you can be tried in a regular court! You of all people know that you can kill anyone you like and have it brushed off as an animal attack, walking away scot-free. Have you ever seen the victims of a _strigoi?_ Or seen the field of destruction that a _chimera_ leaves behind? It’s obvious that someone needs to step in!”

“That doesn’t negate the fact that your little court system is ridiculously unconstitutional. Playing the prosecutor, judge, and executioner all at once? You’re not balancing the scales. You’re just adding another level of unfairness.”

“I admit it’s not perfect – far from it, actually – but our division is still fairly new. We don’t even fully know what’s out there. It’s unchartered territory and yes, the protocols are still works in progress, but that’s better than having nothing else.”

“Don’t delude yourself, this is a witch hunt. You would have tortured me if I hadn’t been so forthcoming with information, and you know people confess anything under torture. I have to hand it to you, this system is completely failproof.” Peter snorted. “In the sense that no failure will ever be documented or followed up.” 

“It’s not perfect,” Stiles replied, his voice rising as his frustration increased. “But it’s better to be involved. To help determine where the FBI is heading, rather than to stand on the sidelines! Do you think I could be a small town cop who writes a murder off as a case of _animal mauling_ and then go about his merry way? This is an important job. The pay is good. I get to do a lot of research, and I’m helping to make the world a safer place, and I’m-“

“-pathologically lying to yourself? Inflated with your own sense of moral superiority? Tell me, what does Scott think about your job?”

Stiles remained silent.

Peter’s eyes widened. “He’s dead?”

“No. Not that I know of.”

Now Peter looked genuinely surprised. “So you’ve lost contact with him.”

Stiles shrugged defensively. “And? It’s hardly the first high school friendship that bites the dust after the glory days are over.”

“You were still friends with Scott in college.”

“It got too much, okay?” Stiles exploded. “I couldn’t keep that up forever. It never got better. You’re just waiting for that _one call_ , waiting to find out who’s going to be dead next, whose turn it is to vanish from your life, and I couldn’t stand that anymore.”

“So…you decided to cut all ties.”

Stiles shook his head. “Decide – that’s a strong word. It just…I let it run its course. Didn’t go back to Beacon Hills that often anymore. Didn’t answer calls that regularly. Last I know Kira was pregnant, so I think Scott is happy and busy and doesn’t need me anyway.”

Almost fondly, Peter said: “you’re amazingly dumb, Stiles. For a clever person.”

Stiles glared at him, but even he could admit that the heat was missing.

  
  
  
  


\-------

 

 

It was a one summer thing, of course.

When Stiles returned to university, he vowed to keep all thoughts of Peter Hale at bay. Because the notion of having a long-distance relationship with _Peter_ freaking _Hale_ of all people…was laugh-worthy. Ridiculously laugh-worthy even by Stiles’ admittedly high standards. 

When he returned home to Beacon Hills in the winter and found Peter’s apartment abandoned, he felt utterly betrayed nonetheless.

  
  
  
  


\-------

 

 

 

“You know why I’m here, right?” Stiles asked finally.

“To assure yourself that you’re okay with whatever punishment is being doled out. Probably the death sentence. I _did_ confess to an awful lot of murders. Plus you all seemed to be a no-nonsense kind of crowd. You’re just making sure that you can live with it, most likely because you still have some sentimental attachment to the memory of us fucking for a week.”

Stiles closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if he could shut out Peter’s words that way. When he opened them again, his gaze was leveled at Peter, unflinchingly, and he demanded: “I need you to tell me about Laura. I need to know if what you’ve said is true.

“That her death was necessary?”

“Yes.”

Peter regarded him for a long time. Then he sighed and said, “I didn’t lie. I needed her power, needed to be an alpha to take revenge. But that is not all there is to it. It was also an act of – personal revenge against her, if you want.”

“Against _Laura?_ " Stiles asked incredulously. 

“Stiles, I have never been an altruistic person, I am not above killing others if it’s necessary – I do what needs to be done and when it’s done, I don’t lose sleep over it. But that episode after I regained control over my body…that was truly something else.”

Peter fell silent, but Stiles wasn’t at the end of his curiosity yet, wasn’t nearly satisfied with the answer he had gotten. “Different in what way?”

A deep, exhausted sigh. “It’s difficult to describe, for someone who hasn’t been there. My mind was – I guess you could say adrift, or suspended, in this strange space that I’d created. There were instances of clarity, episodes of murderous rage – anger, always anger; that was the only thing holding me together at that time. It was like the worst part of myself had materialized – taken form, taken hold of me – and I was unable to stop that monster, unable because it was driven by _my l_ because in the end we were one and the same, two sides of the same coin. It was like living a nightmare. _I_ was a living nightmare. And I loved it. It was infinitively preferable to the years spent at the hospital. For once _I_ was the demon in other people’s fitful sleep.”

“You were feral,” Stiles said slowly.

“In many ways, yes,” Peter replied. “In other ways, I wasn’t. There were glimpses into sanity, instances where I knew exactly what I was doing, what needed to be done next. I was not completely feral. Not feral all the time.”

“But why did you want to kill Laura? Where did that urge stem from?”

Peter’s jaw flexed and he began to pace in the small holding cell, looking the part of the caged predator from head to toe. 

“She abandoned me.”

“What?”

“She left me for dead. Even though I was still alive.”

“This is…you were mad at Laura because she went to New York? With Derek?” 

“She left me at the mercy of whatever stray person or hunter – or nurse, even! – may have strolled in. We heal faster when we’re with pack, Stiles. But she took that away from me. She took the last good thing I still had, the few pack bonds that still remained; she didn’t give a flying fuck about me and my continued health or lack thereof. So I returned the favor.”

“…I see,” Stiles said. And maybe that was actually the case, for the first time ever.

“If I’d been more lucid, I wouldn’t have killed Laura,” Peter said. “She was Talia’s blood, after all. And because even imagining what Talia would look like if I told her…if someone told her…I was always loyal to her, you know. Sort of a fuck-up and a black sheep in many ways, but to Talia I was always loyal – and she was often mad at me, often had a reason to, but in the end we were _pack_. I knew that wherever she was, that was home.”

Stiles was silent after that, tumultuous feelings battling in him for dominance.

“So what’s going to happen to me, Stiles?”

Stiles swallowed, unable to meet Peter’s eyes. “You’ve been sentenced to death.”

When he glanced at the werewolf, he found him wearing a stoic mask. “Well, I hope you’re not waiting to hear me say, _aw shucks, what a pity. But I understand. You’re doing the right thing. Carry on, my brave little friend._ ”

“I’m sorry, Peter. I’m really sorry.”

“ _No!_ You don’t get to tell me that while holding the blade against my throat! You don’t get to apologize!” Peter locked eyes with Stiles’, his irises glowing with blue fire. “So how are they going to kill me?”

Distress was plainly written on Stiles’ face.

“ _Stiles_. I deserve to know. You deserve to tell me that much at least.”

“A lethal dose of wolfsbane. An injection.”

“Excruciatingly painful, I assume.”

“…yes.”

“Now, that’s great. Really looking forward to this week.”

Stiles sighed, frustrated. “I don’t cherish the thought of you being dead.”

“Well, neither do I.”

“I’m going to regret this, probably until the end of my days, but…I could try to get you out.”

Peter stilled. “I like the sound of that.”

“Of course you do.” Stiles shook his head. “This would be the end of my career, you know.”

“You’re not happy with it anyway.”

“Excuse me-“

“You smell of misery, Stiles. And of no attachment whatsoever, neither familial nor otherwise. I don’t know what you’ve told yourself, but you’re not happy.”

Groaning, Stiles rubbed a hand through his hair. “Quiet. I need to think.”

A quick dash to the lower levels to talk with a resident – certainly bad, very bad, and entirely against the protocols. But getting Peter out? He’d be lucky not to share Peter’s cell if they were caught. Lucky not to be executed alongside him. 

“I bypassed a substantial part of the confinement protocol just to see you, and to keep that visit off anyone’s radar,” he told Peter. “I don’t think I can do it a second time. There’s always the risk of someone taking a closer look at the access data, or someone discovering that the camera was hijacked for the last hour. We should seize the moment. Get you out now. Once this cell is opened, there will be an alarm. The security will be alerted. We have the advantage of maybe one or two minutes, maybe double that if they believe the fake video feed that’s replaying at the moment – but not more than that. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Peter said. 

“Alrighty then.” Stiles went to the interface and navigated it quickly, muttering to himself: “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good…”

There was a click as the door mechanism unlocked. 

Peter opened the door and stepped out. He spread his arms. He looked thrilled. Wondrous. Disbelieving. Stiles could tell that his thoughts were racing, plans forming and branching in his mind. 

Stiles gestured frantically. “Come on. We need to get moving.”

“Boys, boys, boys. There’s no need to be in such a hurry.”

Stiles’ head whipped around. He would have recognized that voice anywhere.

And indeed, the Glock that was trained at them was wielded by a grinning, ecstatic Barabash.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never bought Peter’s canon characterization, mostly because the “bad from birth on” angle seems terribly contrived to me. The Peter I like to picture – and you have to picture a different Peter if you want to write a story where his relationship with Stiles isn’t unhealthy – is a magnificent bastard, but not entirely without morals or the capacity for affection. Credit where credit is due: Peter’s motivation for killing Laura is taken from KouriArashi’s excellent story  Something I Can Never Have  (one of my faves in the fandom). I absolutely prefer KouriArashi’s interpretation of Laura’s murder. It’s still a heinous and spiteful act, but one that is more understandable and forgivable, an act of personal revenge rather than cold calculation.
> 
> According to my sources, Helios was the sun god in the Greek pantheon and often described as _all-seeing, all-hearing_ , and _all-knowing_. It’s quite a lofty name for a monitoring project. ;-)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was a long time coming! Apologies for the lengthy delay. 
> 
> My thanks go to [eves_leaves](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eves_leaves/pseuds/eves_leaves), who beta-read this chapter.

  
  
  


Stiles was livid. He rang Derek. He contacted Cora. They didn’t know anything about Peter’s whereabouts, and neither did Scott or anyone else from the pack. No one had any idea where Peter was, nor did anyone seem to care.

And that was why he committed a felony and entered the apartment anyway.

He needed answers.

The apartment had not yet been rented again and looked, as it had always looked, entirely nondescript and bland.

Stiles wandered through the rooms, unbidden and unwelcome memories rising in his mind.

If he had been a werewolf, he probably would have been able to pick up traces of Peter’s scent everywhere.

He wasn’t, though, and that was why the air was still and barren for him, only the dust still lingering.

He had told himself again and again that fucking Peter had been a mistake – one worth making, but not one worth repeating. And yet he had spent the better part of the last semester thinking of Peter. The werewolf was never far from his thoughts, even if he slept with other people.

 _Especially_ if he slept with other people.

But every time he considered calling Peter, every time he wanted to dial his number and say, hey, how is it going, he would think of Laura Hale, think of the way Derek’s eyes became void and his whole form much too still when she was mentioned, think of the way Cora’s anger burned just beneath the skin, always so quick to bubble to the surface, and he didn’t call Peter.

He found it in the bedroom.

_The Metamorphoses._

Stiles took a startled, strangled breath. Had Peter left the book for him, knowing he’d find it? Knowing he’d come back? Had Peter deliberately left a message or did he just care so little for the heartfelt gift?

He knelt on the hardwood floor and touched the book carefully, opening it. There was nothing inside. No note.

_Simply nothing._

Stiles felt strangely crushed by the gesture. Tears welled up in the corner of his eyes, but he gritted his teeth and fought against the urge to cry. Peter was not worth it. Never had been. 

  
  


\-------

  
  
  
 

“Stilinski, you idiot.” Barabash grinned. “Did you honestly think I wouldn’t notice? Don’t know him my ass. I could instantly tell that wasn’t true. And I never believed that tale about your formative years, either – I know you. You’re a troublemaker. And with the clusterfuck that Beacon Hills has been, I’m willing to bet my left arm that you were right in the middle of it.” 

“Nadeshda, you’re making a mistake-” Stiles began.

“Shut up!” she barked at him. “I talked to Tony and Sondra, the two guards who brought him in. They told me that that he even called you by your _nickname_. And now I just caught you red-handed while you tried to release a confessed mass murderer.” The grin on her features had a manic edge to it, as if she was close to snapping and just killing them on the spot.

“Nadeshda, we can solve this-” Stiles pleaded.

“I absolutely agree. You just won’t like _how_ we solve it.”

With his hands in the air, Stiles took a slow step towards her.

“No one takes a single step,” Barabash barked.

Peter had never been good at obeying. Much faster than any human would have been able to, he lunged and shoved Stiles out of the way so that Stiles staggered backwards, hitting the opposite wall. Then he turned around to face Barabash.

She hadn’t made idle threats.

Before Peter could get in her range, his torso was pumped full of bullets. The sound of the firing gun was shockingly loud in the hallway, the echo bouncing off the walls. Peter cried out – a prolonged animal cry, furious and anguished. The residual smell of gunpowder filled the air, mixed with something aromatic and fragrant: wolfsbane.

Peter fell to the floor, grasping his chest as crimson spots began to stain his grey prison attire, blooming and spreading into every direction. He breathed harshly, wet gurgling sounds filling the hallway.

It was Barabash’s mistake that she was too focused on the two hundred pounds of raging werewolf to keep Stiles in sight.

She realized that as she refilled the magazine.

A click.

And Stiles’ gun was aimed straight at her head.

“You fucking traitor,” Barabash exhaled, eyes wide with fear, with the excessive adrenaline in her bloodstream. “You really would shoot me? A fellow agent? You would stoop _that_ low?”

“I would,” Stiles said without wavering. “Now put down the Glock.”

She did that slowly, reluctantly; her face contorted with impotent rage. “You won’t make it out alive. They’ll rather blow up the building than let you escape.”

“That's not your problem. Kick the gun away. Hands in the air where I can see them. And then _go into the fucking cell_.”

Barabasha gave Stiles a look that promised retribution of the particularly slow and painful kind, but still she obeyed his orders.

As soon as she was in the cell, Stiles activated the locking mechanism again. His fingers trembled as they flew over the interface. Peter was trembling violently and coughing up blood with each breath, fighting to cling to life. His lungs must have been punctured god knows how many times. The poison in his system would stifle his natural healing capacities. It was a wonder he wasn't dead yet.

Once the cell was locked, Stiles ran to pick up the magazine that Barabash had dropped and removed its floorplate. He knelt beside Peter. The werewolf’s eyes appeared unseeing, trained on the expanse of the ceiling, but once a bullet was brought into his visual field, he understood what Stiles wanted him to do and managed to tear the shell off with his teeth.

Now came the hard part.

_Concentrate. Concentrate. You're a spark. You can do it. You have before._

Stiles thought of the most magnificent flame he could envision, a terrible thing of roaring beauty, something that consumed everything in its path. He thought of cracking branches and earth that was scorched black, of heat that melted flesh and bone, of smoke so impenetrable it darkened the sky.

There were beads of sweat on his forehead and his heart felt ready to rupture, straining to pump enough blood through his body. He was terribly out of shape. Near forgotten and never used, his capabilities had atrophied.

But the the impossible still happened.

Maybe it was luck, maybe sheer will: a flame flickered to life in the shell, steadily consuming the wolfsbane and gunpowder mix.

Stiles cursed as he pressed the glowing residues into a wound at the center of Peter’s chest. The werewolf gurgled in pain. His body seized by spasms as the antidote entered the system. Stiles had often observed how quickly the antidote could extinguish the poison, but Peter had been riddled with bullets. For all he knew, he could be beyond help by now.

He waited with bated breath, praying to every higher power that might listen.

Nothing seemed to happen.

The wounds were still bleeding.

Peter was still gasping for breath; still a trembling, writhing mess on the floor.

But then – fucking hell, finally – Peter's form relaxed ever so slightly and he seemed to breathe with more ease.

“They’re coming,” Peter gritted out when he could speak again. “Security. On the way. Got a plan to get us out of here?”

“Follow me,” Stiles said. “Come on!”

He helped Peter on his feet and then – a hand fisted into his shirt – began to drag him along for the first few staggering steps. Peter tried to shrug him off after that, but Stiles was persistent and didn’t let go, supporting the werewolf as much as he could.

“Now is not the time for your macho bullshit, okay?” Stiles bit out. “Just accept my fucking help.”

This particular stubborn idiot wasn't going to die on his watch.

Peter was too occupied with cheating death to snark back. He grunted, though, and shifted more of his weight on Stiles.

They were lucky that Stiles knew his way around the labyrinth-like structure of the holding level. They went deeper and deeper into the tract, Peter following Stiles’ seemingly random turns without hesitation. It took about two minutes until the werewolf had recovered enough to jog at a moderate pace.

And it took what felt like half an eternity until they reached the end of a long corridor.

“A fucking dead end,” Peter grunted. He was pale and bathed in sweat.

“It isn’t.”

Stiles pulled a small lever, revealing the doors of an elevator as a panel slid back.

“This is a heavy duty elevator,” Stiles explained as he began to work at an interface that had been previously hidden, his long dexterous fingers sliding over the touch screen almost too quick for Peter to follow. “It’s much larger than the ones at the other end of the tract. This one is made for transporting entire cells.”

Even with his inferior hearing Stiles could hear the security guards now, the sound of their boots on the ground, the occasional yell of “clear!” as they rounded yet another corner and found the hallway empty.

Wrinkling his forehead with concentration, he punched a string of authority codes into the interface.

“Please, please, _please_ ,” he whispered. _“Fucking work.”_

A heartbeat; two heartbeats; three.

Then the elevator doors opened. Relief flooded Stiles as they rushed inside and he pressed the button for the ground level. The doors slid shut just as the security guards appeared around the corner. A second later shots hammered against the metal doors, resulting in horrifyingly explosive sounds that seemed to surround them from all sides, but the elevator began to move nonetheless.

“Where is this taking us?” Peter asked.

Stiles released a nervous, shuddering breath. “We're about two blocks away from the main building.”

Peter raised his hand and cupped Stiles’ cheek. He stroked the skin with his thumb, with soft motions, the gratitude silent but no less evident. For all that Stiles’ wanted to lean against the other man and bury his nose in the crook of his neck, for all that he wanted to feel his pulsing heartbeat under the skin and assure himself that he was really, truly alive, this was not the moment for it. He couldn't think of anything to say, and then the elevator began to slow as it neared the ground level. They turned, training their eyes on the sliding doors, their muscles coiled, their heart rates speeding up.

And then the doors slid open and they were faced with a firing squad.

Well, _shit._

  
  
  


\-------

   
  
  


For a while, Stiles entertained the notion that he was simply into older dudes. Maybe his college peers didn’t cut it. He tried to find sex partners that fit his catalog of criteria – good-looking, witty, giving back as good as they got, keeping him on his toes. Suffice it to say that men of that caliber weren’t easily found and if they were found, not easily obtained or kept. But Stiles did have a few one-night stands and sometimes even longer affairs, and it was nice. 

As a distraction.

And nothing more than that.

He thought of The Metamorphoses now and then, and thought of Ovid. He thought of the poem he had written about the sculptor Pygmalion, who fell in love with the statue of a woman that he'd created. In Stiles' opinion, Pygmalion was clearly an objectophile and quite possibly a creepy basement dweller (if the ancient Greeks even had had basements, he wasn't sure). The dude was into some Real Doll shit and and behaved exactly as you'd expect him to, namely by getting his creep on and being all over his statue. He'd kissed it and thought the kisses returned; spoken to it and thought himself spoken to; held it and asked himself all the while whether he had flesh or ivory beneath his fingertips, not admitting to himself that it was the latter.

Sometimes Stiles wondered whether the same had happened to him in a way. Had he fallen in love with his own creation? Had he been so blinded by what the wanted to see that he'd forgotten Peter's true nature?

Of course, back in the day Ovid had granted his protagonist a great deal of good fortune and the statue had turned into a real human being. Unyielding ivory had become soft flesh, and a real pulse had begun to throb under Pygmalion's searching fingers.

Stiles wasn't confident that the same could happen to him and Peter, no matter how much he wished for it. Being with him had been nice for a while – it proved heady, addictive even, to have that laser-sharp attention trained on him - but in the end Stiles couldn't forget what was under his fingertips.

A monster.

He'd slept with a man who'd killed his own niece in cold blood, for crying out loud. Peter's dick game was strong, but it wasn't _that_ strong.

Or in other words, Stiles was morally flexible, but he wasn't able to twist himself into a pretzel.

Of course, none of it mattered in the end. Stiles' father died of a stroke while he was still in college, and afterwards everything started to unravel at the seams. Stiles left his old life behind and forgot about Peter along with a long list of other people he'd deemed it best to bury in the past.

  
  
  


\-------

   
  
  


A squad of five heavily armed, SWAT-type figures greeted their arrival. “Don’t move,” one of them barked. 

The barrels of five guns were trained dead at their foreheads and yeah, Stiles didn't feel very inclined to even do so much as twitch. His heart was beating as if it wanted to win a horse race, tripling its efforts.

There was a prickling sensation on his cheek; it took Stiles a moment to understand that Peter had just sprouted claws. The werewolf pressed himself against Stiles' back and _growled_ , which Stiles felt more than he heard.

“NOBODY FUCKING MOVE OR I’LL RIP HIS THROAT OUT,” Peter shouted. “STEP THE FUCK BACK.”

With all the splashes of red over his grey prison attire, Peter probably looked as if he'd taken a literal blood bath. He glared at the SWAT guys and breathed heavily, puffs of hot breath hitting Stiles' nape. Fucking fantastic. Facing a firing squad while two-hundred raging pounds of a bloodthirsty werewolf plastered himself all over your back? Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

 _Think_ , he implored himself. Think.

Stiles had no way of knowing who was under the body armor, giving that the guys wore helmets, but the supernatural branch of the FBI wasn't that large yet. Whoever was under there might know him. Maybe they had trained or sparred together. Maybe they had seen him around.

One of the five guys had a nervous tick in his left leg...

“Please don't shoot,” Stiles said, eyes as big and watery as he could make them. “ _Please_. _I'm only human._ ”

He tried to project his thoughts as best as he could – _I'm innocent, I only want to do my job, you don't want to shoot a human. You don't want to kill me. I'm a good guy. I'm one of you._

Stiles had no idea whether his jedi mind tricks were working. It had been a long time since he'd actively cultivated his spark, and the training he'd received at Deaton's hands had been erratic and patchy at best.

“Tell you what,” Peter growled. “You let me leave. I'll take this worthless piece of shit human with me and once I've left this godforsaken place, I let him go. And if you manage to catch me, you can riddle me with bullets to your hearts' content. Sound like a deal?”

No one said anything. No one moved. Stiles waited for long moments, holding his breath.

The tension in the air was so electric it was close to cracking.

Peter placed a hand against Stiles' back and nudged him forward.

Stiles took one step. Then two. Reducing the distance to the guns that were still pointed at him and Peter.

He expected to hear an explosion of sound at any moment, expected it to be the last thing he'd _ever_ hear, but through some wonder or other the SWAT guys backed away as they drew nearer.

Step for shuffling step, Peter steered Stiles across the foyer. There were no other people present to witness their grotesque slo-mo dance. Either the building had been evacuated or it wasn't yet in use. Stiles' heart raced so much he felt lightheaded. He kept glancing over to the squad in their body armor and black opaque masks. He kept looking at his own feet, at the small steps he took, each one bringing him a bit closer to freedom. There were no windows at eye level. The only natural light came from above, from the big glass planes at the ceiling of the foyer. Stiles caught a glimpse of the clear blue sky; it was a beautiful day. Somewhere out there, people were buying newspapers and biting into donuts and going about their day without a care in the world, fretting over mundane little happenings.

Peter maneuvered Stiles' body so that the SWAT guys couldn't release a single bullet without hitting them both. Stiles understood the reasoning behind that. Either they both got out of this together or none of them did.

Still, it was a fucking miracle that the SWAT guys didn't shoot anyway. Stiles had officially deserted the cause and given the FBI the middle finger in the process. There was no reason for the higher-ups to shy away from a killing order.

Step for shuffling step, they crossed the foyer.

They made it outside.

  
  
  


\-------

   
  
  


The supernatural branch of the FBI spanned several buildings above ground and a wide array of interconnected levels underground. The door they had chosen led them to a yard that was the cargo areas; there were large boxes and shipping containers as far as the eye could see. 

Peter did the sensible thing and dragged them behind a shipping container, breaking the sightline of the SWAT guys.

“We need to find the gate,” Peter said. “There has to be one, for the trucks.”

Stiles looked around. The cargo area was enclosed by high walls on all sides, but he couldn't make out a gate. There were too many boxes obstructing his view.

“Too many fucking heartbeats,” Peter said and Stiles had no idea what he was talking about, because he saw no one, anywhere – not in the yard and not in the windows of the two close-by buildings.

“What?”

“There are people in there,” Peter said, nodding to the cargo boxes.

Stiles frowned, his mouth opening and closing uselessly. _What?_ What the hell? But before he could say anything, Peter maneuvered them around the next set of boxes, holding Stiles close and scanning the area. His grip around Stiles' chest was painfully strong, but at least that made the hostage-taking situation more believable. Plus, the physical contact actually felt comforting. Stiles wasn't dead yet, and neither was Peter. They were in this together.

Stiles tried to remember the layout of the building complex, tried to orient himself. “I think we have to go that way,” he said and pointed at two o'clock.

With Peter in full-on werewolf rage mode, they made good headway and reached the outer perimeter quickly. They even found the gate, a towering steel thing that was locked close and appeared impenetrable. Stiles opened his mouth to ask a question, but Peter beat him to it.

“Brute force, darling,” the werewolf said and punched one of the large hinges. He eyes flared bright and he winced at the impact, but the structure broke with a satisfying creak. The next hinge befell the same fate, and the one after that bent but didn't break as Peter jumped in the air to reach it. Still, the werewolf managed to draw the gate open with some effort, separating the gate from its anchoring with a strained groan.

An alarm went off somewhere in the distance.

But that didn't matter, not when the gate opened to a street, opened to _fucking freedom._

Peter dragged them out of the yard and right in the middle of the road – and in front of an approaching car.

 _Holy shit!_ Stiles was ready to scream his lungs out, but before he could do that the car screeched to a halt, stopping a mere five inches in front of their feet. The guy behind the wheel looked horrified – and who wouldn't, with Peter cosplaying a particularly ill-tempered axe murderer – and intended to reverse the car, but Peter's supernatural reflexes hindered him from escaping. Before the guy even knew what was happening, Peter had ripped the car door open and dragged the driver out of his seat.

He moved over to the passenger seat and then yelled at Stiles to _get in the car._

Stiles moved past the guy that Peter had removed so unceremoniously from the driver's seat (he was shaking, but still in one piece) and took his place.

“You better drive, I don't even know where we are,” Peter told him.

Stiles hastily buckled up and hit the gas pedal, swerving past the guy they'd robbed. They were lucky the street was deserted at the moment. Peter pushed his seat back and folded himself into the legroom as much as that was possible, keeping his head down. One look at his bloodied self and people would scramble to call the police.

For now they had escaped, but the odds weren't stacked in their favor. Nothing about their little prison break had been inconspicuous. And Stiles hadn't even planned this thing! It was just him being a spontaneous idiot.

Nervously, Stiles' fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “What are we going to do now? We can't outrun them. They'll lock down the entire city if they have to. They might not have killed us yet, but if they involve the higher-ups, and that's happening this very moment if it hasn't before, they'll make the executive decision that the death of one little human is a small price to pay to keep everything under wraps. They don't want the general population to know about supernatural beings. They'd have a mass hysteria on their hands. If they've debriefed Barabash, it's open season anyway. They might just bomb the entire neighborhood to make sure we don't get out. Call it a gas leak or something. No one ever believes the people here when they rant about government conspiracies, so we're probably fucked either way.”

From his crouching position at the passenger's side, Peter growled. “Geez, someone should hire you to do motivational speeches! Where are we, anyway?”

When Stiles told him, Peter cursed. “I don't want to die here!” he whined.

“Well, neither do I. Look, we have two options. We can either drive in the direction of the city center or leave the city altogether. Right now we're in the outskirts, in the industrial area.”

“Once we leave the city, there's probably only wilderness out there?”

“Some fields and farms, but mostly woodland and mountains.”

“Into the wilderness,” Peter decided and so Stiles took a right turn next. They passed a few other cars, but there were no ominous black SUVs anywhere in sight. So far, so good.

Peter angled for the radio and turned it on.

_“-is the extremely violent nature of these two men – their rap sheet is just absolutely staggering. Let's go ahead and look at some of the charges these men have been convicted of – kidnapping, torture, aggravated mayhem and battery, murder and attempted murder – and that's only the beginning of the list! Quite a rap sheet. The search has just begun, and a law enforcement official told us this a full-court press. Kevin Terrance is a fifty year old Caucasian male, 5' 10'', stocky build, hair cropped short and light brown. Hector Pacey, thirty-two years old, also Caucasian, is 5' 11'', has dark hair and a slender build. If anyone sees these men, be sure to call 911. They are presumed to be armed and clearly, by that rap sheet, extremely dangerous. They're motivated not to get caught because of the fact that they could face life in prison. They were last seen stealing a car in-”_

“Bastards,” Peter snarled as he turned off the radio. “They made me a year older than I am! And _stocky_? What do they mean by that?”

“Oh shit, shit, shit,” Stiles murmured. “They're using fake profiles, covering their tracks. That's _not good_. What the fuck are we supposed to do?!”

“I don't know!” Peter answered testily. “You're the one who went in there without a plan!”

“Oh sorry, would you rather have stayed? I can turn around and bring you back, you ungrateful asshole!” Stiles yelled. “Of course I didn't have a plan, I just wanted to talk to you one last time! That was all I wanted to do!”

Peter sighed, pressing his forehead into the seat. “There's no benefit in arguing. At least we've left the city behind, right? Where can we go from here?”

The houses had gotten sparser and sparser, that was true, and now they were passing fields of grain. Stiles huffed, trying to calm his fraying nerves. “No fucking clue. I don't fucking know.”

The silence was strained between them. For long moments, neither of them spoke up.

Then Stiles cursed when they went past a farm he recognized from a hiking trip a few years ago. He suddenly felt hopeful, almost excited. “Hey Peter! There's this old abandoned chalk mine.”

“A what now?” Peter asked incredulously.

“A chalk mine. It's long been abandoned, and in theory the area is closed off, but it's still a spot some people hike to – and teenagers camp in the area, explore the caves, get drunk there.”

“You want us to hide in a cave?”

“It's like a maze. It's a system of tunnels. Miles and miles of them. And that's only the actual mines – there are natural caves beyond that, all under the mountain range. It's unchartered territory.”

“Okay,” Peter said with a sigh, sounding as if he was just getting a heavy migraine. “Fine. Hopefully it's not a deathtrap, but in the absence of better ideas...”

“If they're coming after us, the tunnels are pretty good bottlenecks.”

“They could smoke us out,” Peter said gloomily.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles took a right turn, swerving into a country lane that would take them straight into the depth of the forest and to the chalk mine. The car wasn't built for a lane as shoddy as this one and rattled horribly, which abruptly reminded Stiles of his ever reliable Rosco.

“I'm getting nostalgic,” he admitted. “You remember my blue Jeep?”

Peter snorted. “Yeah, what a piece of junk.”

Stiles shot the werewolf a dark look. “Don't talk shit about my _baby_. I'll make your furry ass walk. Don't think I won't.”

Peter was smart enough not to say anything to that.

They had nearly reached the wider area of the chalk mine when Stiles was forced to stop the car. It looked like there had been a storm recently. A big fir tree had been uprooted and fallen on the lane, blocking it entirely.

“We'll have to walk the rest of the distance,” Stiles said. “It's not far from here, though. It should be alright.”

Peter crawled out from the legroom and got out of the car, stretching his back. “Other vehicles also won't be able to use that lane. That counts as a win in my book.”

Stiles could see the werewolf's nostrils flaring, greedily sucking in the air. Being in the middle of nature, he appeared to be in his element, visibly more relaxed and optimistic. It was spring and the forest was bright green all around them. The aromatic scent of pine was strong even to Stiles' blunt human nose.

They started walking at a quick pace, nearly jogging, and had almost reached the valley where the chalk mine was located when a loud ringing interrupted the silence.

Oh fuck!

His cell phone!

“You carry a fucking _cell phone_ on your person?” Peter asked in disbelief. _“Really?”_

Stiles patted his suit jacket, feeling mortified. “I forgot about that!”

He accepted the call. “Yes?” he asked with trepidation.

“Stiles! You're alive!”

“Flynn,” Stiles answered with a strangled voice. He stopped in his tracks.

“Stiles. What. The. Fuck. Happened?”

“It's... it's complicated?” Stiles hedged.

There was silence at the other end – the sort of silence that felt like an eternity when it could only have lasted seconds. “So everything Nadeshda said is true.”

Heat rose in Stiles' cheeks. “Yes. Although I've got a pretty good reason for doing what I'm doing. _I'm sorry._ I’ve always liked working for you.”

“You can shove that remorse up your ass,” Flynn said, and he'd never heard her sound that glacial. “ _I believed in you_ , Stiles. I even wanted you to be my successor. But you've burned that bridge. I will flay you. If we ever meet again, Stiles, I will flay you with the bluntest knife in my kitchen.”

“Flynn, please don't let us end it like this-”

“Did you give me an option? You betrayed us! If you think there will be _any mercy_ for you, you're on the wrong track.”

“Always _nice_ talking to you,” Stiles said, but there was no snark in his voice – only sadness. “Gotta go.” He ended the call.

Peter looked at him for a long moment. “You should get rid of the phone.”

Stiles shook his head. “Not yet.”

He took a deep breath and activated a voice message, recording an audio file. “Don’t come after us, Flynn. Consider this a lost case. Just…erase us from the system and pretend we never existed. If you don’t come after us, this will be the last you've ever heard of us. If you try to come after us, I'll inform the public about our FBI division. Do you want to find out what happens when the public is provided proof that supernatural beings exist? That there are shapeshifters and vampires and witches living among them? Tens of thousands of them, and that only in the US? I always cover my bases, Flynn. I have copies of every case that went through the hands of your team. Copies of videos, photographs, files, medical analyses. Just one click and they'll be sent to every major news outlet in North America. If you threaten us – if anything happens to us – that's what's gonna happen. So don't come after us. Forget about us.”

Stiles turned the cell phone off and deposited it on a nearby tree stump.

“Think they're gonna find it there?” Peter asked.

“Yeah, they'll be thorough. They'll comb through this forest – they have the GPS data so they know we're here. And even if they don't find it, they can access all of my files through the cloud storage.”

Peter nodded, satisfied.

They started to jog again, when Peter cursed and grabbed Stiles' arm. The werewolf looked freaked out, and that in turn made Stiles freak the fuck out out. “RUN!”

“What's going on?” Stiles yelled.

“A helicopter!” Peter shouted. “There's the sound of rotor blades and it's getting louder!”

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck!”

They ran through the dense forest, branches hitting their arms, their face, and when the trees cleared away to the pit of the chalk mine, they kept running and raced across the steep slope.

The opening of the caves was at the center of the pit.

They held onto each other's hand, clinging on for dear life.

Even Stiles could hear the helicopter now, could hear the sound of the rotor blades over his panting breath. When it came within sight, his heart sank. The sleek silhouette revealed it to be a military aircraft. _With weapons._

Just as he had realized that, the ugly noise of gunfire exploded behind them. They weren't hit, but some of the rubble of the slope was loosened and slid down.

Through some miracle or other, they reached the opening of the caves and ran past the flimsy barrier of the caution tape, but just as they had passed the entrance, something loud happened – it sounded as if their pursuers had just _bombarded_ the freaking pit. The result was a deep, rumbling sound all around them, steadily increasing in decibel like a rapidly approaching thunderstorm. The caves were on the brink of collapsing.

By memory Stiles knew that the entrance area of the caves was spacious, but he couldn't make out a single thing. It was pitch black darkness all around him.

Peter dragged him along. If not for him, Stiles would have been lost.

And gotten himself killed.

With his uncanny reflexes, Peter helped him dodge a large rock that came tumbling down. He only barely escaped with a bleeding graze and the fright of his life.

The outermost parts of the chalk caves collapsed in themselves, but the tunnels deeper in the mountain remained stable. 

Stiles and Peter managed to save themselves just in time. 

And yet, that didn’t alleviate the terror Stiles felt.

In the all-encompassing darkness, only the sound of their winded breath could be heard. 

The air was stale and damp. 

They were closed in.

  
  
  


\-------

   
  
  


It took them the better part of three days to find a way out of the caves. Stiles would have been lost if not for Peter. The werewolf navigated them confidently through the pitch black darkness, relying on his heightened senses to locate the tunnels that seemed less stale, less quiet, more likely to bring them back to the outside world. He was surprisingly patient and gentle about guiding Stiles' steps. They were lucky there were some underwater streams along their way or else they would have died of dehydration. (Though Stiles certainly didn't feel lucky when they had to cross one of these streams and he was engulfed by icy water). 

When they finally found a way out of the systems of tunnels, the light was so bright Stiles instantly got a needling headache.

But they were free.

They were in the middle of the wilderness and could make out no signs of civilization anywhere near them. The hills of the forest stretched for miles and miles.

As happy as they were not to find the FBI waiting for them, no sign of civilization also meant: no food.

They kept walking, looking as grimy as zombies by now. Stiles was certain he would soon break down and die of stomach cramps, and maybe exactly that would have happened if they hadn't found a deserted hunting cabin. Peter's claws proved to be excellent lock-picks, and the cabin itself was a god-sent gift. It was _dry_. There were _cots_ and _stacks of clothes_ – flannel shirts, sturdy pants, all of them reeking of mothballs – and best of all: _conserves_. The canned soups tasted like heaven to Stiles. He actually sobbed as he ate his first spoonful, and since Peter was similarly relieved he was in no state to mock him for it. After the caves, sleeping on the cot felt as good as sleeping on a cloud. Stiles relished the chance to put on something clean and less conspicuous than his dirty FBI suit, and Peter helped him cut his hair, trimming it down to his roots until Stiles had a nostalgic buzz cut and felt like an entirely different person.

Next to the food, the best thing they found was an old radio.

Peter fiddled with it until it sprang to life, and although it cackled and buzzed with white noise at unpredictable intervals, it was their lifeline, their connection to the rest of the world.

After a nearly endless stream of banjo-heavy country songs, they perked up when they heard the jingle that preceded a news segment. A minute in, the newscaster had something to say about them.

_“-while Kevin Terrance and Hector Pacey are in custody again, captured on Saturday after only four hours of freedom, questions were raised how they could escape a maximum-security facility in the first place...”_

Stiles and Peter looked at each other, both of them displaying identical expressions of silent hope.

They stayed at the cabin for two days. Recuperating. Getting their strength back. And then it was time to go on. Maybe the FBI assumed they were dead; maybe they had let them go. But it was equally as likely that they were still being hunted.

Peter wanted to find his way north, across the border to Canada.

Stiles had his heart set on the opposite direction. He hadn't been in California for a long time... maybe it was time that changed.

“Our chances will be better anyway if we split up,” Stiles reasoned.

Peter's expression was inscrutable, but the werewolf didn't disagree.

And so they packed as much provision as the cabin offered – Stiles got more than Peter, despite his protests – and braced themselves ready for a long and difficult journey across the country.

It rained when they set off. Stiles really, _really_ would have loved to stay longer. By now the cabin, for all that it was moldy and covered in cobwebs, seemed as luxurious as a penthouse to him. And besides... Stiles was already missing the werewolf at his side. He considered changing his mind about the whole separation deal. Canada sounded nice, didn't it?

But Stiles stayed quiet when they reached the crossroad that would lead them to different hiking trails.

“So this is the end of the road?” Peter said finally.

Stiles nodded and bit his lip. “Yeah. Seems like it.”

“I guess I should get going then,” Peter said. “Goodbye, Stiles.”

“Yeah... goodbye.”

Neither of them moved.

“You’re not waiting for some kind of a thank you note, are you?” Peter asked, a spark of humor in his eyes.

“Asshole!” Stiles punched the other man in the shoulder, hard. “I just gave up my career for you! I risked mortal danger to save your furry ass!”

“It's not _that_ furry, as you well know. And that career you speak of was crappy and made you unhappy. Come to think of it, _you_ should be the one thanking _me_.” At Stiles' indignant impression, the twinkle in Peter’s eyes dimmed considerably. “Seriously though, Stiles. Thank you for getting me out of there.”

Stiles sighed. “It’s okay…and for the record, you’re only about fifty percent as awful as I thought you were. I think I need to apologize. Not that you were exceedingly forthcoming with personal information when we used to...”

“Fuck?”

“Be together.”

Peter was silent at that, and out of instinct, Stiles did something he hadn't planned to do – he locked his eyes with Peter's and tilted his head slowly, presenting the bare stretch of his throat to the werewolf. Offering it to him in a gesture of... something. Acknowledgment perhaps.

Peter's eyes widened.

“Behave yourself,” Stiles told him with a little wink.

“Don't I always?” Peter answered, sounding somewhat dazed.

Before they could part entirely, Stiles turned around once more and yelled, “Wait! There’s something you still need to know. My first name is _Przemysław._ I was named after my granddad on my mother's side.”

Peter smiled at him – a genuine smile, notably different from his usually cocky smirk. It transformed him in entirely unexpected ways. “I know, Stiles. I knew that even back then. I just wanted you to tell me.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_Epilogue_

_Six months later, somewhere in Melanesia._

   
  
  


Stiles sighed. He'd been _promised_ a solitary white beach. Emphasis on solitary. It figured that he'd run into asshole here. He wandered over to the werewolf, who was tanning himself and displaying his fit physique. _(Of course)._ Stiles had filled out nicely since his teenage years, but he was still a bit jealous of Peter's landscape of smooth muscles. Well – half jealous, half lusting. 

Mostly lusting, if he was honest with himself.

(Which he wasn’t).

“Fancy meeting you here,” Stiles said.

Peter’s eyes opened, a lazy grin brightening his features. “This day _is_ looking better and better. Especially from this perspective.”

Stiles snorted. “That really depends on how you look at it. Tell me, why do we keep running into each other?”

“Because one of us has unfortunate stalker tendencies…?”

Stiles spread his towel next to Peter’s. “I can assure you it’s not me.”

“If that’s what you need to tell yourself.” Peter stretched in the fashion of a truly content cat. “But it’s fine. It’s not like you can _help it._ You’re in the thrall of my magnetic sex appeal. A mindless slave to your baser urges.”

Stiles sent him a glare. “Don’t flatter yourself too much.”

“Do you think that's even possible?”

“Every time I think you can’t get more narcissistic or more of a megalomaniac, there you are, proving me wrong.”

“You’ve always liked that about me, haven't you.” Peter watched Stiles lather on sunscreen with hungry eyes. “You need help with that?”

Stiles nodded and turned his back towards Peter, implicitly trusting him. He'd often thought about the werewolf in the last few months. They were both fugitives, even though there was no arrest warrant dangling over their heads. Flynn had swept everything under the rug, had kept the events after their escape hush-hush.

And yet, only an idiot would assume no black op teams had been sent their way.

“Actually, it’s not flattery. You must have really wished to find me.” Peter covered Stiles' back with sunscreen and then rubbed Stiles' shoulders, skillfully easing the tension out of his muscles. And if Stiles leaned into his touch after a while, into the soothing heat of his hands, that was no one’s business but his own.

“Magic doesn't work like a GPS.” 

Peter grinned. “There's still a lot you don't know, little Spark.” His hands glided across Stiles’ torso, heading in the direction of his shorts. Stiles gave a strangled gasp as his hands pushed past the waistband. One enclosed his cock in a tight, heated grip, while the other furled around his balls, massaging them gently but insistently.

In hindsight, solitary beaches were overrated.

Stiles let Peter tease him until he was hard, which - to be fair - took no time at all. When Peter dragged the shorts down, Stiles’ cock was was flushed a pretty pink, a pearl of translucent pre-come glistening on the tip.

“You smell _nice_ ,” Peter growled, eyeing the erection with bated hunger.

“I do?” Stiles mumbled.

“Let me suck you off.”

“Okay,” Stiles agreed with a laugh. A grin spread over his features as Peter made himself comfortable between his legs and engulfed his cock in scorching wet heat.

This was heaven.

Maybe literally. Maybe he'd died somewhere along the way, back in the cell tract.

Stiles couldn't bring himself to care. Not when the afterlife was much nicer than Stiles had ever anticipated.

The sky stretched endlessly above them and the rhythm of the breaking waves was soothing and hypnotic in its repetitiveness. Bedded on powdery-fine sand, the hot beat of the sun on his skin, and Peter's devastatingly skillful mouth hard at work, it was impossible for Stiles not to surrender to the onslaught of sensory pleasure. His mind turned to molasses, slow and unhurried for once.

Peter took his sweet time. He delighted in pushing Stiles to the brink of orgasm, only to retreat when he felt Stiles getting too close.

When he finally let him come, Stiles groaned and his thighs trembled with minute spasms. Peter swallowed his come like a man dying of thirst, determined to suck every last drop out of him through the sheer force of his will.

Afterwards, Stiles slung an arm around Peter, dragging him close until they were pressed against each other. To the casual observer, it would have looked an awful lot like cuddling.

“That was nice,” Stiles murmured, nuzzling against Peter's throat. “Thanks.”

Peter looked hilariously offended. “Little brat. _Nice?_ Seriously?”

“Particularly nice? Super nice?”

“Someone should teach you manners.”

“You volunteering?”

“No way. That would be a twenty-four-seven job with lousy pay and no perspectives.”

Stiles couldn't argue with that, especially now that he felt lazy to his bones and was so content with his life choices. They observed the turquoise waves for some time, watched them break on the sand and retreat tinged with white foam.

“So this is the harsh fugitive life, huh?” Stiles asked.

“Hm, yes. It’s awful.”

“Practically inhumane.”

“Absolutely,” Peter said with conviction. “What brings you here, anyway? Why pick this remote corner of the world?”

“Just a gut feeling,” Stiles replied with a mild, mocking frown. “But obviously I had to leave the US.”

“Pity that.”

“Hm. I did speak with Scott a while back, though. He was glad to hear from me. He didn't even know if I was still alive, so... it was good to talk to him.”

“That kid never had any common sense.”

Stiles smirked, leisurely combing through Peter's hair. “We’ve always shared that particular trait.”

He squeaked when he suddenly found himself pressed into the sand, Peter settling down on top of him. Stiles could feel every long hard line of Peter’s body (and some more than others). There was satisfaction in Peter's eyes as he leaned down to engage Stiles in a filthy, drawn-out kiss.

“I missed this,” Peter said when they broke apart to catch their breath. He aligned his forehead with Stiles' and closed his eyes. “Missed you.”

A warm, fluttery feeling unfolded in the pit of Stiles' stomach. “Missed you too, you big marshmallow.”

They spent the afternoon fooling around like hormone-crazed teenagers, occasionally going into the waves to cool themselves down and dunk each other into the water. Stiles discovered, to his endless amusement, that Peter was hopeless at diving, which rendered the werewolf critically vulnerable to attacks from below the water line.

When the sun set and lit the sky ablaze in searing reds, Stiles plopped down onto the sand. “We can’t live out our days here,” he said, sighing wistfully.

“You're right about that,” Peter conceded.

“I wasn't idle those last few months, you know. I've tried to... garner support. Reconnect. Get resources.”

“Oh?” Peter said non-noncommittally, as if commenting on the weather.

“Flynn will come after us.”

“Think we should do something about that?”

Stiles smiled, a devious glint in his eyes. “I think offense is our best defense.”

“Meaning?”

“Let’s take those shady motherfuckers down. _All of them.”_

Peter’s brows arched. “Now, now. Spoken like a true megalomaniac.”

“Beg you pardon?” Stiles laughed. “I don’t have to let myself be insulted by a manipulative, ruthless bastard with no redeeming qualities whatsoever.”

Peter smiled; a truly happy smile, rare and precious like the first ray of sun after an arctic night. “Do you know what the difference is between you and me, Stiles?”

“No.”

Peter rubbed his cheek against Stiles’, scenting him. “Me neither.”  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism is always welcome. Comments are much appreciated.
> 
> Man. I definitively owe you an explanation. I distinctly remember myself saying this chapter was as good as written and would get posted in no time. (THAT'S WHY PEOPLE HAVE TRUST ISSUES). 
> 
> Basically, at some point, I wasn't feeling the story anymore. It felt like it had gotten too long and rambly. It felt like I had alluded to some themes that I had no idea how to work into the story. Besides, I couldn't figure out how to write the action scene at the end, Stiles' and Peter's grand escape! (Planning is something that writers do beforehand? What?) So while a good deal of the third chapter had been written for quite some time, it didn't come together.
> 
> Long story short, I want to thank everyone who commented on this WiP and encouraged me, everyone who inquired after this fic. You guys are awesome. I honestly wouldn't have finished it without you.
> 
> Also...just lemme thank [eves_leaves](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eves_leaves/pseuds/eves_leaves) again, who was enormously patient and understanding about my writer crisis. 
> 
> Trivia time: Peter's and Stiles' last lines are from the movie Bound by the Wachowskis.
> 
> The title The Ultimatum Game refers to the economic experiments of the same name, and to Stiles and Peter trying to take the measure of each other during their discussion in the cell tract.


End file.
